#pittsburgh penguins smut

[nylwnder]

run your mouth

a/n: back with the second last drop!!! of course i had to include my boy bunts in this series <333 who am i without my twin??!! currently working on the last fic and can’t wait to get that out to you guys :) loves u and enjoy bbs!

pairing: michael bunting x fem!reader 

warnings: SMUT, bratty!reader, brat taming, mocking, fingering, oral (f! recieving), p in v, unprotected sex, technically exhibitionism, bunts doesn’t play for the leafs anymore (but still hanging out with the boys), swearing

word count: 2.7k

taglist: @shoot-the-puck , @lukepangburn118 , @hawkeyefierce , @boqvistsbabe , @sweetiet , @p1tstop , @occasionallyaurora , @laurenairay , @fallinallincurls , @andrea9 , @dylpickle4791 , @biznastysloneshift12

series masterpost 

the lights were bright and colourful, decorations hung around the walls and tables, cocktails flooding the room, snacks upon snacks with laughter and love being shared with each other. 

it was new years eve, therefore unsurprisingly celebrated at the marner residence. you were mingling with the rest of your friends on the arm of your boyfriend and known “greasy rat” michael bunting. it was the first christmas with bunts not playing for toronto anymore, however connections and bonds grow deeper than contracts and trades. so regardless of where you might be living right now, toronto is your home. and you were grateful to be spending your time with the group of people you feel most connected to. 

later on in the night, some of the boys wanted to challenge each other in a game of pool. the rest of the wives and girlfriends stayed chatting in the living room with some glasses of wine. you took your cup, however you felt a hunch that you could have a bit more fun as a spectator for the game.

michael has had lingering touches on you all night, and you were starting to get more needy the more he spoke to the others. so what was a way to motivate him into fulfilling a need before the night ends? perhaps, you felt like being a little bratty today!

you sit on a couch in the game room, watching auston make sure the table is set up accordingly. the boys began barking at each other, teasing the other about who will win. they decided to play in pairs at first. auston with mo and bunts with willy. mitch was going to play, but he was chirped out of the group before he could even grab a stick. you giggled. 

the first round wasn’t too bad. michael was carried by william’s strategic movements and consistent straight shots. you chose to make sure you praised willy as much as you could. you could notice the way bunts would hold his cue tighter, it only ignited you more. 

however, auston and morgan put up a good fight, and got a two for one shot to win the game. that's when they decided to break off into individuals, mo and willy first—willy winning—and now aus and bunts, meaning you were ready to continue running your mouth.

music buzzed in the background from the other room. bunts is lining up his shot. you crossed your legs together, watching with a mischievous grin, sipping your drink. 

“alright boys, watch and learn. ‘bout to end this game right now.” bunts says.

you snicker, “please! you’ve been saying that for the last ten minutes. just take the shot already, you self-proclaimed pool shark.” the boys giggle.  

bunts pauses to glare at you “you wanna hop on this table and try your luck, or are you just here to run your mouth?”

you smile, already finding yourself under his skin. “why would i ruin this perfectly mid game with my superior skills? this tragedy is way more fun.”

“she’s got a point, man. you better not scratch this twice in a row. again.” mo says, finding himself betting on the underdog whilst reminding him of his faults. it made you giggle. 

bunts straightens up in defense, “okay, first of all, those scratches were tactical. second—mo, didn’t you just miss a straight shot last game? sit down.”

willy laughs, “yeah, but at least he didn’t call it ‘tactical.’ you’re just making stuff up now.”

“‘tactical scratches’ is that what we’re calling choking these days?” you chirp again. 

bunts smiles, “keep chirping, babe. the more you talk, the more i’m convinced you’ve never touched a cue in your life.”

“oh, i’ve touched a cue. i just don’t need to overcompensate for my lack of skills like some people.”

auston laughs,“she’s ruthless, man. you sure she’s on your side?”

bunts grabs the chalk, rubbing it dramatically on his cue “oh, she’s on my side. she just likes to act tough in public so she doesn’t seem too obsessed with me.”

you scoff. “obsessed? honey, i’m only here because the good snacks ran out, and watching you lose is free entertainment.” you smirk, sitting back and taking another sip of your drink. 

“okay take the shot already kid.” mo says. 

bunts points at the men in front of him, “you better hope i don’t win this game. i’ll make sure you guys never live it down.”

from the angle in which you sit, you have a deep feeling the ball will bounce too much off of the edge and miss the pocket completely. 

bunts takes the shot. the ball indeed bouncing off the cushion and narrowly missing the pocket. you and the guys erupt into laughter.

“yeah, pool shark eh? more like a goldfish in a kiddie pool.” auston says, grinning with his head steady on the tip of his stick. 

bunts straightens again, “big words from the guy who didn’t wanna play against me when we came to town.”

“i wasn't feeling well dumbass” auston remarks, poking your boyfriend with his stick. 

“sure…” bunts says, smiling. 

willy smirks, “don’t drag us into your weak game, bunts. you’re doing just fine embarrassing yourself without our help.” you grin at his words. 

“you make a great point, willy! you should listen to him michael, he did carry you in the pairs game anyways.”

michael grins, “alright, alright, keep it coming. just remember, i only let you guys talk this much ‘cause i’m nice. otherwise, you’d be crying right now.”

the boys scoff and you couldn’t help but do the same. “crying? maybe from laughing too hard.” you say, moving your empty glass to the side. your boyfriend shoots you another playful glare. 

it was now auston’s shot. he began to line himself in an angle that felt the most comfortable for him as well as guaranteeing enough of a push from the cue-ball to sink. and so he does. the sweet sound of a clink and the swish of the ball falling in the pocket, also known as the sweet sound of victory. 

morgan pats bunts on the back. “don’t worry, bud. not everyone is cut out for this.” the rest of the boys giggle again and bunts smiles as well. its all playful banter at the end of the day. however not everyone gets let off so easy. 

once the girls from the other room call everyone to get ready to watch the ball drop, you get pulled by your waist into michael’s frame. the door closing behind the boys. 

“may i help you?” you inquire with sass whilst raising an eyebrow. 

his hands snake tightly around your waist, pulling you snug against him. the tips of his fingers falling low and laying at the top of your ass. 

“why do you always need to give me a hard time?” 

“why are you so easy to chirp?” 

he gives out a low chuckle, amused by the way you always manage to keep up. 

“you gon let me go?” you ask, however not eager to escape his embrace. 

“not till you apologize”

you hum, “you're asking for a lot from me, big boy.” he grins again, and you can't help but reciprocate it. he grabs you tight and lifts you onto the pool table, spreading your legs with his own. your stomach flutters in anticipation. 

“just because you-” you were cut off by michael’s lips against yours. god, you’ve been waiting for him to shut you up. his lips move naturally with yours, nipping at your lip to allot space for his tongue to slip in. 

the more the two of you engaged in this silent conversation, the more your body felt like it was on fire. your dress suddenly too warm and too tight, heat creeping up your chest and neck as you licked into bunts mouth, tasting the alcohol on his lips. whines began to escape you whenever you would break for air. nails denting his skin, an urge for him to not continue the teasing foreplay. your dress straps have fallen down your arms, dress scrunched up, exposing your thighs. 

with one last kiss, michael fell to his knees. your hands immediately go to his hair, combing your fingers through his strands and tugging the more you feel his breath hover over your core. he looks up at you, his stupidly soft eyes asking for permission. his nose so close to your clit, breathing in your scent, his lips kissing the wet patch on your cotton fabric. “got you wet already huh?”

“god, please” you beg, feet on his shoulders, his fingers rolling down your panty, shoving it in his back pocket to keep it safe and sound. michael’s hands grab the skin on your thighs to hold them far apart, his head slotting in between. 

bunts began agonisingly slow, tongue licking stripes up and down your folds, then licking circles around your needy clit. you were whining, pleading for him to hurry up but you figured you deserve the punishment. “you taste so good baby, all wet for me” you give out a huff. 

“want more?” he asks, “is my baby needy?” the tone is playfully mocking you, which makes you smile internally. however, externally, his nose bumped into your hole so perfectly your face scrunched and your moan was your only answer. 

he took that as his answer, two of his fingers slipping into your entrance and instantly feeling your pussy constrict around him—that was enough of a confirmation. his mouth sucks and nibbles on your cunt, releasing it when a pop before latching himself around it again. his digits moving in and out at such a speed, it was all, so much and yet just what you wanted. 

your heels dug into michael’s shoulders and back, you grabbed a striped ball that was near you on the table, your fingers tight around it. really just looking for anything to ground you, the wash of euphoria beginning to overcome you. he gave you praises but they were lost in the air, your ears only hearing the noise coming out of your arched body. 

you soaked his fingers, before he pulled them out to replace it with his tongue probing your entrance. he licked you clean and made sure to suck on your clit just a bit more gifting him with a whimper and a kick from your foot, the fresh sting of overstimulation evident. 

bunts brings his fingers to your mouth, he taps your chin bringing your attention back to him, making you open your mouth. your tongue swirled around them, making sure you suck them clean. the taste of yourself giving you a buzz. bunts smiles, pulling you closer to the edge, you can feel his bulge against your thigh. you palm it, hand rubbing over the fabric of his pants. he lets out a low moan, grabbing your waist and enveloping his lips with yours. 

“is this what you wanted all along? to fuck you here on this table? in mitchy’s place? everyone outside that door, capable of coming in at any moment?” there’s a dark shine in his eyes that matches the glossy layer of your juices smeared all over his lips and chin, the small droplets evident in his small scruff.

“maybe” you say, your fingers tugging at his pants, looking at him with a pair of doe eyes. 

he grins again, unbuttoning his pants and taking his cock out of its constraint. he wraps your leg around him, your hand reaching to give him a few strokes, pre-cum around his pretty pink tip. he aligns himself to your entrance, and your hand reaches for his forearm while he slips in. “shit” you utter, head lolling back. 

he gave a few long thrusts, indulging in the feeling of your warm wet walls wrapped around him. bunts looked down, seeing the way his cock is covered in your slick every time he slips out of you, you felt him twitch inside you. 

“i nearly ruined them,” he grumbles, sucking a bruise into the soft skin of your neck. your foggy brain remembers how this started. 

he smirks—its bait, hes trying to reel a remark out of you but hes also making it too hard to do so. not with the way his cock is balls deep inside you on a pool table in his teammates house, a room yet still clearly decorated by his wife. you still manage to scoff, so he decides to mock you some more. “what, too fucked to run your mouth anymore? yeah kind of like you better this way, don't you think?” 

you would have continued with your bratty little comments, but, right now, you’re too focused on the feeling of his rough hand pressing circles on your enlarged clit. too focused on the wet of his mouth spreading over your breasts, his teeth running over you ever so gently, forcing you to whine back.

“i’m gonna ruin you though, that's for sure” he says with a smile as you fall back to lay down on the pool table, pushing your hips forwards with a hearty thrust. then another. and then another. 

you shove your hand in your mouth, not necessarily eager to have someone eavesdropping or walking in to discover the two of you. bunts tries to pull your wrist away from your face, “no baby, you were making so much noise earlier, don’t shut up now” 

your entire body rocked against the table as he bucked up into you, “bunts,” you uttered breathlessly as he stretched you out at a rhythm that was both so slow yet so hard at the same time.  

“oh my god, you feel so- so-…” you swung your hand above you to grip on the edge of the table, your head right beside the cue-ball, your fingers accidently pushing a stick and hearing it clink against the hardwood floor, “fuck!” 

“i feel so what, huh?” he teased your blissed-out babble, “so hard? so big? so good?” his thrusts began to grow more selfish, the lewd clapping of hastily exposed skin echoing and seemingly overpowering all the other noises that vibrated throughout the house, “you like how this cock fills you up to the fucking brim, do you?”

you bite down on your lip, mumbly noises escaping you as a response. your body is on fire, the pressure in your lower belly reaching a peak. one of his hands clutches to your hips to keep you still while he fucks the light of you with unbridled passion. you can feel every inch of your body vibrating to the sound the two of you make. your breath comes out forced in short breaths. “i’m gonna— fuck!” you manage out. you’re squeezing him so hard. 

you finally hear loud noise coming from deeper inside the house, thankful the group is preoccupied. its new years, you reminded yourself, your head still a foggy blur. you hear counting, but not until it's muffled by the pounding of your heart. 

bunts shares that last thrust that tips you over the edge. your walls flutter and contract around his cock as you reach the top of your climax. your eyes roll back. michael follows right after, spilling all of himself inside you while you ride that tide that makes your vision blur and ears ring. thats when the two of you hear cheering and laughter radiate throughout the house. your body feels electric. michael relishing in the bliss. 

your hand seeks his, and he wraps it around yours immediately, tightly. your breathing becomes steady and you begin to sit up, bringing your boyfriend closer into your frame, a more than necessary hug. he gives a low giggle into your shoulder, happy to give you a cuddle. almost yearning for your soft side after your earlier scolding. 

“happy new year!” you exclaim, however your voice more quiet and raspy than you anticipated. michael’s other hand moves to your cheek, a smile plastered on the man’s face. 

“happy new year, babe!” he exclaims, equally as soft and intimate. you smile back, your familiar afterglow shining all over you. bunts isn't anything but grateful at this moment. to have you to start the new year, nevertheless the way the two of you entered it. best new years eve hands down, he states to himself. even if he lost both pool games. 

“i hope your first new year’s resolution is to not be such a brat” bunts mentions playfully, quirking his head to the side. 

you chuckle. “but i like the way you tame me” 

michael grins. “there are pros to it. but maybe lay it off around the guys?”

“that's the best part!” you say, smirking. 

“you don't quit, huh?”

“yeah, i love you too” 

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[starshine-hockey-girl]

Change of Plan - Never Ever Have I - 2024 Post Season Blurb

Just a blurb to ease the pain of the Pens not making the playoffs.

On Exit Interview day, Sidney and Evie find that sometimes plans change.

Warning- contains spoilers of Sidney and Evie's 2024 life; Sidney and Evie smut- semi-public sex, talks of breeding

The chapter that started it all-

Thursday - April 18th - Crosby house - Sewickley, PA 

Sidney laid on his belly in the living room and meticulously stacked blocks in a tower while his daughter watched. When he placed the last block on the top of the tower, he would grin and say, “Cat-Cat, do you like my tower? Isn’t it so tall?” 

She would clap her hand and nod her head, “Tall Daddy…. Tall”. Then she would proceed to knock the tower down much to Sidney’s feigned shock and sadness. Sidney would put his head down and pretend to cry while looking sideways at the brunette beauty who was the perfect combination of her parents. “Daddy build,” his daughter would instruct, “Daddy build.” 

He would grin at her before sighing dramatically, “Okay, but don’t knock it down again.” She would smile and clap as he rebuilt the tower. They were currently in round twelve of the game when the front door opened. Trina and Troy stepped into the house and Catherine abandoned Sidney in his place. She waddled over to her grandmother and held up her arms. Trina scooped her up and swung her around. 

Sidney stood up and looked at his parents in confusion. “I wasn’t expecting you two this morning,” he smiled. 

Trina began to speak before Evie cut her off.. “Beso, I asked them to come over to stay with Catherine,” she explained as she descended the stairs. Sidney turned to her with a look of confusion. Evie stopped at the bottom of the stairs, hugged her in-laws, and kissed Catherine on the cheek. “I have some errands to run before the party tomorrow night,” she said as she turned to Sidney, “I thought I would drop you off for your exit stuff and then pick you up afterwards so we could have some lunch together.” The Crosbys were hosting a combination party that night. They were celebrating the end of the season, and Jeff Carter’s just announced retirement. 

Sidney processed the information quickly. While he couldn’t produce a logical objection to her plan, something seemed amiss. Evie was far too dressed up for simple errands. For errands, she defaulted to yoga pants. Instead she wore a short red dress which she paired with sparkly flats. However, he dismissed the thought and they proceeded to get ready to leave. 

THREE HOURS LATER- UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex

“Geno!” Evie yelled at the tall Russian. 

He turned to her with a smile. “Evie- you sight for hurt eyes.”

“Sore eyes - sight for sore eyes,” Evie corrected. 

Geno rolled his eyes. Evie was the only person who had enough audacity to correct his English. He pretended to be annoyed but he appreciated her concern. “Sore eyes,” he repeated, “Nice to see my friend. It has been too long.”

“It was last week,” she laughed as she hugged him. “How is our boy?” she asked quietly. They shared a look. They both knew the results of the season had the capability to bring out the worst in Sidney.

“He’s good,” Geno spoke, the relief evident in his voice. “He's in the locker room,” he said as he kissed the top of her head. “Nikita is waiting for me. I will see you tomorrow night. He can't wait to see his Evie,” Geno joked as he walked away from her.

“Give him hugs from me!” She called to him before she turned to walk to the locker room.

Sidney sat alone at his locker. His personal effects were packed neatly in his duffle bag along with the additional bag of swag that that equipment team put together for Catherine. The Penguins staff had left the room to allow him time to gather his thoughts. “So another year of missing the playoffs,” he thought to himself. The thought ruminated in his brain as he tried to summon any sort of emotion. In the past, he would have imagined that there would be feelings of disappointment, even anger, but today he felt nothing.”Well, that’s not true,” he corrected himself. He felt a sort of resigned acceptance of the season's outcome. The acceptance was married with a feeling of anticipation and dare he say-happiness? 

He looked forward to spending the next few months with Catherine and Evie. His daughter was such a happy toddler and spending time with her filled him with a peace that he didn’t quite understand. His thoughts turned to Evie who also brought him peace. She also lit a fire in his soul and he looked forward to relishing every minute he could. He needed to reconnect with her in a way that was simply impossible to do during the season. 

He was so lost in thought that he barely heard Evie’s knock on the door. “Beso?” she said as she poked her head into the locker room, “Is there anyone else in here? I don’t want to intrude.” He shook his head no and she walked in gracefully. She looked around the room then turned to him with a smile on her face. 

“You look happy, Mon Etoile,” he remarked, “How did you errands go?” 

“Mission accomplished,” she said as she walked towards him, “Everything is set for tomorrow. Deliveries begin at 4 pm.” He nodded in understanding. Then he smiled and held out his hand to her, a silent invitation. She sat down next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. “You know Beso,” she drawled, “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?” he asked. 

“Come into this room and not remember that night almost six years ago,” she laughed, “How do you not picture me bent over this bench when you come to work every day?”

“Ohhh,” he responded as he deftly wrapped his arm around her and lifted her onto his lap, “I do remember it. I remember it every day.” His voice trailed off and he blinked his eyes that suddenly filled with tears. 

“On a good day, it is a reminder of how much life can change with a single decision,” he spoke softly. “On a bad day, it is a reminder that I have someone waiting for me at home who loves me unconditionally. That all of this…..” He waved his hand around and continued, “All of this is nothing compared to the life that we made together.” He put his hand on her cheek, “So yes, I think about it every time I enter this room- even after all this time.”

 “You do know how to woo a lady,” she leaned forward and kissed him gently, “Speaking of wooing, come with me, Beso.” She hopped up and held out her hand. He looked at her hand and then her face before grabbing onto it.

“Evie, where are we going? Should I be scared?” he joked as they exited the locker room and walked along the hall toward the rink. Sidney noticed that the hall was suspiciously empty. Evie led them to the bench. On the bench, there were two plastic bottles - one yellow and one black with Penguins logos on each.

“Evie…..” he groaned, ”What are we doing?” The lights to the rink were off. Only light from the hallway illuminated the bench. 

“Take a seat in your office, Mr. Crosby,” she directed him to sit. 

“Technically this isn't my actual official since it's the practice rink,” he corrected her.

“Take a seat, Beso,” she repeated. Once he was on the bench, she handed him the black bottle while taking the yellow one in her hand. Then she hiked her dress slightly and straddled his body, wrapping her legs behind his back. Then she smiled brightly at him as his eyes adjusted to the low light. “Beso, I am challenging you, “ she started to speak before he interjected.

“To what?” He moaned as lifted his hips to press into her. 

“Wait, wait, wait…” She shook her head, “I have a whole plan.” His hands went under her skirt and grabbed her bare ass, pulling her into his crotch. “Beso, seriously - I have a plan,” she moaned as he grinned into her. 

“Well, now I have a plan,” he kissed her neck. “Did you arrange privacy, Mon Etoile? Was that part of your plan?” The friction between their bodies filled her with pleasure that it was difficult to think. 

“Yes,” she moaned, “The rink is ours.”

“Good,” he pushed her off his lap, spun her around and lifted her skirt in one smooth motion. “Oh no panties, Mon Etoile? Such a naughty woman, but i am changing the plan. Want to know the new plan, Evie?”

“I am pretty sure I can figure it out,“ she teased before she swatted his hand away. However she made no other movement. Instead she leaned forward and placed her elbows on the bench railing.

“Evie,” he groaned as he stood and unbuttoned his pants, “You will like my plan. I promise. Want to hear it?” He leaned over her back and pressed his erection against her slick folds. She nodded yes, afraid she might not be able to control the volume of her moans.

He slid into her effortlessly. “My new plan is to put another baby into you,” he moaned as his cock was enveloped into her warmth. Evie smiled. This was her favorite of Sidney’s kinks. He got so turned on imagining impregnating her like he was a prized stallion in need to continue his bloodline. He pulled her up to kiss her neck before he reached around to use his fingers to enhance her pleasure. “We have all summer, Evie,” he whispered into her ear, “All summer for me to fill you every morning and night with my seed. You’ll be pregnant by the time the season starts.” 

“Do it, Beso,” she moaned, “Fill me up right now.”

“Yes, I'm going to put a boy in you,” he hissed as his thrusting sped up, “My son.” The idea of his second child being conceived in an ice rink fueled his passion. It wasn’t long before they both collapsed from their mutual orgasms. He had a momentary panic when he noticed the drips slowly going down her thighs. His eyes darted around the bench as he pulled up his pants.

Evie shook her head, adjusted her dress then pulled a small hand towel from her purse. Sidney smiled, “Oh so you planned on me making a mess out of you today.” He took the towel from her hand, bent down and gently cleaned her thighs. He followed with kisses as he guided her back to the bench.

Evie leaned her head back and moaned softly, “Something like that. I knew that it was a distinctly possibility, which is why they shut down the rink for us,” she teased as she pulled out panties from here , “Knowing our past, it seemed like a safe bet.”

“What was your plan?” he as scooped her and placed her on his lap. He nodded his head toward the black and yellow bottles. “We're those involved” he asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes, before you so rudely interrupted me, I was going to challenge you to a game of “Never Ever Have I - married edition,” she joked.

“We can still play,” he kissed her cheek, “I just got caught up in the moment.” His hand instinctively went to her stomach. “Maybe the ice will bring us luck,” he grinned, “Just like with Catherine.”

“Not so sure about that, Beso,” she grinned.

“You don't think it worked? Why?”  he did some mental math, “Shouldn't you be ovulating now?” Evie opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. “What? Am I wrong?”

“I should be surprised that you know when I ovulate, but I am not, “ she softly kissed his lips. “But to answer your question, no- I am not ovulating,” she sighed, “Definitely not. All that work was unproductive.”

“You don’t think we conceived just now?” He whispered. It started a joke- a way to engage in their favorite kinks but the idea took root in his mind. The more he thought about it, the stronger the desire became. “You don't think we conceived or you are not ready for another child?” he asked.

“No, Beso- I don't think we just conceived a baby,” she kissed his nose, “and I hope to God that we are ready.” His eyes searched her face in question. She sighed and reached for her purse. “Close your eyes,” she ordered. His face scrunched up as she put her hands behind her back. 

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Beso, but you didn't put a baby inside of me today,” she said with a soft smile. His face dropped and her hand went to his cheek. “See, you can't put a baby inside of me,” she kissed him gently, “because there is already one there.”

Confusion spread across this face. “What do you mean there is a baby inside you?” he asked in a small voice.

“I mean that I am pregnant,” she grinned, “Surprise!”

She watched as the realization sunk into his brain. “I can't put a baby into you because there is already a baby inside of you. There is a baby inside of you,” he spoke to himself. “There is a baby inside of you, which means you’re pregnant, which means that you are going to have a baby,” he uttered. Suddenly all of the dots connected and exclaimed,”WE ARE HAVING ANOTHER BABY!!! A BABY!!! EVIE….EVIE….A BABY!!!”

“Are you sure?” he asked. She pulled the sonogram picture from behind her back and handed it to him. He studied it silently. Evie wiped his tears. A million questions flooded his brain. He opened his mouth, and they flew out. She patiently listened.

“I took a test on last week when you were on the road. The OB confirmed it today, “ she explained, “He is due the second week of December.”

“He?” he grinned, “You think the baby is a boy, or do you know yet?”

“Too soon to tell,” she answered, “but this one feels different than Catherine. Maybe it's because we weren't planning on it. Are you sure you're happy? I know you like things planned, and having a baby during the season isn't ideal…..”

“Evie,” he pulled her into a hug and squeezed her tight. “You taught me that the best things are unplanned. You are the best thing to ever happen to me, and you were a complete surprise. I wasn't looking for you, but one game of Never Ever Have I later, here we are.”

He glanced at the bottles, “Sorry for ruining your plans, Evie.”

“It's okay,” she laughed, “it worked out.”

“Wait,” he announced, “I have one.”

“One what?” she asked.

“One Never Ever Have I,” he answered as he hand instinctively went to her belly.

“What is it?” she placed her hand on top of his.

“Never Ever Have I been so happy,” he beamed.

Evie reached for bottles of water and took a drink, “Me too, Beso, me too.”

[cuteandhughesy]

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⊹˚₊full fics⊹˚₊

Sidney Crosby

➱ the other woman (1/2) ✯

✎ you thought your boyfriend sidney wanted you to support him at the four nations face off tournament, so it comes as a shock when you tells you to stay home—only to find out the stomach churning truth. using prompt no. 41 from 100 celly list: “you’re it for me.”

➱ I love you, I’m sorry (2/2) ✯

✎ after you found out you were the other woman, you broke it off with sidney—making him promise to tell his wife. now your life has changed drastically, and you don’t know what’s going to happen with the love of your life. because even if sidney and his wife end their marriage, you don’t know what that means for your shattered relationship.

⊹˚₊blurbs⊹˚₊

Sidney Crosby

prompt 30: “you brought me flowers?” “yeah? is that like not a normal thing for guys your age?”

prompt 27: “i’m old enough to be your dad.” “I. don’t. care.” ♡

[angelsuecult]

it ain’t me babe | s. crosby

Pt. 2

“Go melt back in the night, babe

Everything inside me is stone”

warnings: none.

summary: the aftermath of a wedding has you left wondering where your relationship with sidney is going.

request: We need Sid and younger girlfriend attending a wedding 👀 here realizing that maybe Sid should see other people angsty slow burn fluff smut maybe?

word count: 5.6k

song: it ain’t me - joan baez 

a/n: i hope you guys like this one! Im pretty proud of it. ALSO WHAT IS A TAGLIST?? I WANT TO DO IT BUT IDK WHAT IT IS I PROMISE IM NOT INTENTIONALLY OVERLOOKING IT I JUST DO NOT KNOW WHAT THAT IS!! SOMEBODY PLS LMK.

Part 1 | Part 2

—

The apartment falls quiet. Too quiet.

You go through the motions of getting ready for bed on autopilot.

Hair undone, makeup wiped away, heels abandoned somewhere in the living room a problem for tomorrow.

You exhale slowly as you sit on the edge of your bed, rubbing your hands over your face. The weight of the night presses against your shoulders, heavy and unrelenting.

Now you’re in pajamas—one of Sidney’s t-shirts and a pair of fuzzy pants that you had grabbed blindly from your drawer. The shirt is soft, worn down from years of washes, and smells just like him.

It makes your chest ache.

You should be exhausted. It’s late. Your body is tired, but your mind won’t shut up.

You shuffle around your apartment, turning off the lights one by one, until the only one left is the glow from your bedroom lamp.

And then, just before you head to bed, you do something completely fucking stupid.

You pull back the curtain and peek through your window.

Sidney’s gone.

You don’t know what you were expecting.

Of course he left.

You don’t know how long he sat out there, parked in the same usual spot, engine idling. But now there’s nothing. Just an empty space where his car had been.

Why would he still be out there? You gave him nothing to work with. No explanation. No indication of what the hell went wrong tonight.

Just shut down completely, locked yourself up tight, and now you’re surprised that he left?

It shouldn’t make you feel as lonely as it does.

But it does.

You let the curtain fall shut, swallowing the lump in your throat as you climb into bed.

Your sheets are cold when you slip beneath them, sending a shiver down your spine. It makes you curl up tighter, instinctively seeking the warmth of him.

Sidney’s pillow is right there.

It smells like him.

Like his cologne, his shampoo—like home.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to shut out the ache that spreads through your chest.

Your phone is on your nightstand.

You curl into yourself further, phone in your hand, thumb hovering over the screen.

There’s nothing from Sidney.

Of course there isn’t. 

You open your messages anyway, staring at the empty text box.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t even know if you should say anything.

You type something out. Delete it. Type it again.

I love you. I’m sorry.

Backspace.

I miss you. I’m sorry.

Backspace.

Goodnight. I’m sorry.

Backspace.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but no words come out. So you toss your phone onto the mattress.

You really did want to go home with him tonight.

You did.

But no matter how badly you want to be in his bed right now, tangled up in his sheets, wrapped up in his warmth—you just couldn’t bring yourself to go home with him tonight.

Not when it didn’t feel right.

Something in you just—couldn’t.

Not when the night had left you feeling so fucking out of place. Like you had no right to be in his life.

So instead, you’re here. Alone. Holding onto his pillow like it’s the only thing keeping you together.

And then it happens. A knock that barely registers at first.

Your eyes are closed, you’ve been hovering in that in-between space—half asleep, half awake, mind slipping into unconsciousness when the sound filters through the quiet. You don’t move. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe it’s something outside.

And again.

A slow, deliberate knock.

Your stomach twists because you already know who it is.

For a second, you think about just staying in bed, pulling the covers over your head, pretending you didn’t hear it. It’s late. Whatever he has to say can wait until morning.

But you know Sidney.

And Sidney doesn’t just go when something doesn’t sit right with him.

You sigh, pushing yourself upright. The hardwood is cool against your bare feet as you shuffle to the door, barely awake, heart pounding. You don’t bother checking the peephole. There’s no point.

You hesitate for a second, fingers hovering over the handle. There’s a moment where you consider taking a breath, preparing yourself, but you don’t give yourself the chance. You pull it open.

Sidney’s standing there.

He looks—frustrated. Tense. His jaw is clenched, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, and his eyes sweep over you, taking in the way you’re dressed in his t-shirt, the sleep still lingering on your face.

His shoulders drop the slightest bit, like he was holding his breath without realizing it.

“Are you gonna let me in?” he asks, voice low.

You step aside without a word, and he walks in, waiting until you close the door before he turns to you.

He lets out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “What’s going on?”

You blink. “What?”

Sid exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “What the fuck is going on with you tonight?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sid scoffs, lips pressing into a tight line. “Seriously?”

You fold your arms, the weight of exhaustion settling into your bones. “It’s late, Sid.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he mutters. “I’ve been driving around the block for almost an hour trying to figure out what the hell just happened.”

You swallow, shifting your weight. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me why the fuck you suddenly decided you didn’t want to come home with me,” he says. “I want to know why you shut down, why you acted like you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

“I didn’t—” You exhale sharply, running a hand over your face. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”

You look away, focusing on the floor, the wall, anywhere but him. You hate that you’re making him feel like this.

Sidney exhales through his nose, his patience thinning. “I don’t get it, okay? I don’t fucking get it. We were fine when we got there. You looked happy. You were joking around with me in the car, messing with the radio, making fun of my suit. And then suddenly—” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t even know. You spent the whole night by yourself.”

You close your eyes.

“And then you thank me for a ‘great night’ like I’m some fucking Uber driver?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “What the fuck, Y/n?”

You shift your weight, suddenly feeling too exposed, too cornered. “I’m just tired, Sid.”

“Tired?” He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

You cross your arms. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Sid’s jaw tics. “I want you to talk to me.”

Your throat tightens.

His voice is rough around the edges, threaded with frustration, but it’s not anger. Not really.

It’s concern.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you say, hating the way your voice wavers at the end.

Sid’s eyes narrow, like he can hear it too.

He shakes his head. “Bullshit. Jesus, I feel like I’m losing my mind here. You shut down out of nowhere, and now I’m standing here at one in the morning trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong.”

Guilt twists in your stomach.

You didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

But now you’re standing here, and he’s looking at you like he’s trying to put together a puzzle that doesn’t make sense, and you have to spell it out for him.

You have to say it out loud.

And the fact that you have to spell it out for him makes you feel like absolute shit. What’s so difficult to understand here? Doesn’t he know?

Your nails dig into your arms as you squeeze them tighter across your chest, pulse thrumming in your ears. You can feel the frustration clawing its way up your throat, hot and bitter, but you don’t know how to say it without it coming out wrong.

Because what’s the point of not telling him at this point?

Why are you still trying to swallow this down like it’s nothing? Like you weren’t sitting at that fucking table alone for half the night, smiling through gritted teeth while women old enough to be your mom compared you to a fucking escort? Like you didn’t have to sit there and pretend it was all fine while your own date couldn’t even be bothered to check in with you?

And now here he is. Confused. Sidney is staring at you, waiting. His hands are in his pockets, but his whole stance is tense, shoulders drawn tight, brow furrowed. Acting like he has no fucking clue why you suddenly wanted to go home. Like he doesn’t realize how humiliating it is to be borderline ignored by him and, in turn, everyone else.

And maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t get it. The way he’s standing there so fucking confused, waiting for you to explain why you feel like absolute shit instead of just knowing.

So you let it out.

You let out a short, sharp breath, shaking your head. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Sid’s jaw tightens. “No. I don’t. That’s why I’m here.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in your chest.

“Jesus Christ, Sidney.” You step back, running a hand through your hair. “You’re—You’re Sidney fucking Crosby. The most important guy in the room, in every fucking room you walk into, and I get that, okay? I understand how this shit works by now.”

Sid doesn’t say anything, but his brows pull together, his mouth pressing into a firm line.

“I just wish I could’ve spoken more than a single fucking word to you tonight,” you say, and you don’t mean for it to come out as harsh as it does, but you’re tired. You’re tired.

Sidney blinks. “What?”

“I looked like a fucking idiot,” you snap, your voice trembling with something you don’t even want to name. “Sitting at that table alone, smiling at people who barely looked at me, waiting for my own fucking date to talk to me for more than five seconds before he got pulled into another goddamn hockey story.”

His frown deepens. “That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” you cut in, voice sharp. “Because from where I was sitting, it sure as hell felt like I was there for no other reason than to be ignored.”

Sidney exhales heavily, raking a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t ignoring you—”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, really? Because it sure as fuck felt like it.”

Sidney’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel like that.”

You laugh, humorless. “Yeah, well, what you meant to do doesn’t really mean much when the result is me looking like a fucking idiot.”

Sidney’s eyes flicker with something—frustration, guilt, something else you can’t quite place. “No one thought you looked like an idiot.”

“Oh, no?” you say, and your voice is shaking now, not with tears, but with anger. “Because it sure fucking felt like everyone was in on some big joke I didn’t know about. The hooker comments, the midlife crisis jokes—”

His face hardens. “Who the fuck said that?”

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does,” Sidney argues.

“No, it doesn’t,” you bite back. “Because that’s not the point! The point is that I was standing there smiling through my fucking teeth while these women talked to me like I was some kind of novelty, like I was some poor little thing who didn’t belong there, while you were ten feet away, completely oblivious.”

Sidney’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I didn’t know—”

“Exactly!” you cut in. “You didn’t know because you weren’t paying attention. You weren’t there.”

Sidney’s eyes darken. “That’s not fucking fair.”

You scoff. “Isn’t it?”

His hands finally come out of his pockets, and he gestures vaguely, expression tight. “You know how these things are. People pull me into conversations, I don’t always have control over—”

“I do know,” you interrupt. “I know exactly how these things go. I know you get dragged into conversations, I know it’s not intentional, I know all of that. But what you don’t seem to understand is how fucking humiliating it is to be borderline ignored by your own date—to be ignored by everyone else because of it.”

Sidney’s jaw tics. “I wasn’t—”

“You know what’s not fair?” You take a step closer, jabbing a finger toward his chest. “The only actual fucking conversation I had tonight wasn’t even with a guest—God forbid—no, it was with the fucking coat boy.”

Sid’s face tightens. “Coat—” He exhales sharply. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

You throw up your hands. “Jesus, Sid, do you hear yourself? It means you barely fucking spoke to me, Sidney! How many godddamn times do I have to spell it out for you?”

Sidney huffs out a breath, rubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t—what do you want me to say? That I should’ve been glued to your side all night?”

“No,” you snap. “I wanted you to act like you wanted me there.”

He stares at you, something flickering in his expression, something frustrated but also—guilty.

“And before you say some shit like ‘Why didn’t you just come over to me? Why didn’t you just talk to me?’ Why the fuck should I have to?”

Sidney flinches. Just barely.

You swallow, your breath coming a little too fast. “Why should I have to beg my own date to acknowledge me?” Your voice cracks slightly at the end, but you push forward. “Why the fuck did you even bring me if you didn’t want to talk to me?”

Sidney shakes his head. “That’s not what it was.”

“Then what the fuck was it? Because you invited me, remember?”

Sidney looks at you, and there’s something in his expression—something frustrated, something aching. Like he wants to fix it but doesn’t know how.

Your breath is coming out uneven now, chest rising and falling with every word you force out, every ounce of frustration and hurt bubbling over. Sidney is just looking at you, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might crack a tooth, hands flexing open and closed at his sides. And it only pisses you off more because—because say something, for fuck’s sake. Say anything. Defend yourself. Fight with me. Do something.

But he just stares.

And you—god, you can’t. You’re too tired, too drained, too fucking done with feeling like this, feeling like you’re just… there. Like a placeholder, like a pretty little accessory to sit at his side while everyone else in the room actually matters.

So you let it spill out.

“I’m not the one you want, Sid.”

His entire face drops, mouth parting slightly like you just knocked the fucking wind out of him. And maybe you did. Maybe that’s what it takes to make him finally fucking see.

You laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s not even bitter, just… hollow. “I’m not the one you need, either. And that was made pretty fucking clear tonight.”

Sidney shakes his head immediately, taking a step forward, but you step back just as fast, arms tightening around yourself. “That’s not true.”

“But it is,” you say quietly, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “And you would know that if you actually listened to anything anyone said tonight.”

His brows draw together. “What the fuck does that mean?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “I couldn’t get a fucking word in with you tonight, Sid. Not one. And you know why? Because I don’t matter in that world.”

Sidney’s expression darkens, and his voice drops lower, more serious. “That’s not fucking true.”

“But it is,” you argue, eyes burning now. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, I’m not even saying it’s something you did on purpose, but it’s just… how it is. I was there, I was at that table, but I might as well have been a fucking ghost. And you—”

Your voice cracks, just a little, and you have to pause, have to force yourself to swallow down the lump in your throat before you can go on.

“You didn’t notice me, Sid. You didn’t talk to me. You didn’t ask me to dance, and maybe it was because you forgot or maybe it was because you didn’t want to, but it doesn’t really matter either way, does it?” You shake your head, breathing out a humorless laugh. “You didn’t even sit down to have dinner with me.”

Sidney closes his eyes for half a second like he’s trying to keep his frustration in check. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you interrupt, voice quieter but no less sharp. “But you did. And that’s why I can’t even talk to you about this.”

Sidney lets out a breath, one hand dragging down his face, and when he looks at you again, his eyes are a little wilder, a little more desperate. “That’s bullshit. You are talking to me about it. Right now.”

You shake your head, exhausted. “Not really.”

His nostrils flare. “You think I don’t want you?”

You press your lips together, looking away.

Sidney steps forward, forcing you to look back at him. “No, seriously—do you actually think that? That I don’t fucking want you?” His voice is rough, raw. “Because that’s fucking insane.”

Your throat is tight, fingers curling into the fabric of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt. “Sid—”

“No,” he says, voice sharp. “You don’t get to say shit like that and then just shut down on me. What the fuck are you even saying right now?”

He exhales sharply, dragging both hands through his hair like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. His jaw is tight, his expression pulled with frustration, guilt, something raw and unspoken sitting heavy between the two of you.

And you don’t even know where to go from here.

Is this it? Is this how it fucking ends?

One bad night. One really, really bad night—so bad it’s made you question everything. So bad you’re standing here, your chest tight, your vision blurring, telling the man you love that you don’t think you’re the one he wants. The one he needs.

And it’s not like you don’t know how fucked up that sounds, how unfair it probably is. But it’s how you feel. And god, it just won’t go away.

Sid lets out a rough breath, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking believe this,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, pacing half a step before turning back, his eyes sharp, desperate. “This is really what you think? That I just—what? Forgot about you?”

You blink fast, your throat burning, voice quieter but still raw. “You did forget about me.”

Sid’s mouth presses into a hard line, his nostrils flaring slightly. “That’s not—Fuck, I didn’t forget about you, babe. I was just—”

“Busy?” you cut in, shaking your head. “Yeah, I know, Sid. I know you were busy. You’re always the most important guy in the room, and I get it. But Jesus, Sidney—” Your voice catches, and you take a shaky breath. “I sat there for hours just waiting for you to come back. Just waiting for you to maybe fucking look at me. And you didn’t. I had to sit there and smile while people made the butt of their fucking jokes, and I couldn’t even tell you about it, because you weren’t there. You weren’t even thinking about me.”

Sidney’s face twists, something like regret flashing across his expression. He shakes his head again, stepping forward, voice softer but no less urgent. “Baby, I—”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Baby.

Your fucking weakness. But you push on.

“And maybe it wasn’t a big deal to you,” you press on, voice shaking now. “Maybe it was just one night to you, maybe I’m just making a fucking thing out of nothing, but—” Your breath stutters, and you have to look away, swiping roughly at your eyes. “But it didn’t feel like nothing, Sid.”

Sidney curses under his breath, the sound almost pained. “Jesus, baby,” he murmurs, stepping closer, reaching for you.

You shake your head, stepping back. “Don’t.”

Sid stops in his tracks, something breaking in his expression, like that physically hurt him.

Your stomach twists, and you swallow against the lump in your throat. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do with this, Sidney. I don’t know what this means.”

Sidney exhales slowly, his voice thick. “It means we fucking talk about it.”

Your throat tightens, something sharp and exhausted threading through you. “Do we? Because I’ve been trying to talk to you about it for the past thirty minutes and you still don’t seem to understand.”

Sid’s brows furrow, his face still tense, but his voice softer now, more pleading. “Babe—”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can sit in rooms full of people who look at me like I don’t fucking belong there. Who talk about me like I’m some kind of joke.” Your eyes are burning again, and you blink rapidly, shaking your head. “And I don’t know if I can do this when it feels like you don’t even fucking care.”

Sid looks wrecked. Absolutely fucking wrecked. His throat bobs, his hands tightening into fists before he forces them to relax. “Y/n, I’m—” His voice catches, and he exhales hard, taking another step toward you. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, looking away.

“No, look at me,” Sid says, his voice rough. “Please, baby, look at me.”

You hesitate, then finally meet his eyes.

And god, he just looks so fucking sorry.

“Y/n,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

Your throat clenches, your chest so fucking tight it hurts.

Sid hesitates, like he’s giving you a second to pull away—to run, if that’s what you really want. But you don’t move. You can’t.

And then, slowly, so fucking slowly, he reaches for you.

“Come here,” he breathes, soft and pleading. “Please, baby. Just—just come here.”

And God help you, you do.

You don’t even think. You just go, letting him pull you in, letting him wrap his arms around you tight, like he’s terrified you’ll slip right through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.

And fuck, it almost hurts how tightly he’s holding you, his grip firm and desperate, like an apology all on its own.

You squeeze your eyes shut, burying your face in his chest, and Sid lets out a shaky breath, pressing his face into your hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw, breaking. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your throat clenches, and you swallow hard, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

Sidney exhales hard, arms tightening around you. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he murmurs, voice thick. “God, I didn’t—fuck—I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t important, I swear.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking on the last word. “I love you so fucking much, and I—I don’t know how the fuck I let this happen.”

Your chest tightens painfully, and you shake your head against him.

Sidney swallows hard, arms flexing around you. “You’re the most important fucking thing in the world to me,” he breathes, voice rough and aching. “And it’s not okay that you felt like that tonight. It’s not. I should’ve—I should’ve fucking been there.”

Your breath shudders out of you, and Sid lets out something close to a quiet curse, shifting slightly so that he’s cradling you now, one hand sliding up to the back of your head.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, like he’s trying to will it into you, like he’s trying to make you feel it. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You nuzzle into his shoulder, breathing him in, letting your fingers play at the soft hair at the nape of his neck, twisting the strands between your fingertips, memorizing the way they feel. Just in case. Like if you just press yourself deep enough into him, maybe—maybe—it won’t hurt so much when this all slips through your fingers.

Because if this is the last time—if this is the last time you ever get to hold him, touch him, love him—then you want to make sure you remember everything. Just in case this is it. Just in case you lose him tonight. Just in case you don’t get to love him tomorrow.

Sid breathes out hard, his grip tightening on you like he can feel the way you’re preparing yourself to lose him. And maybe he can. Maybe he can feel the way you press your face into the crook of his neck, like you’re trying to keep him there just a second longer. Like you don’t want to let go.

"Baby," he breathes against your temple, his lips brushing your skin. "Don't do that. Don’t—don’t pull away from me like that."

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to break, not to let the sadness welling in your chest swallow you whole. "I’m not," you whisper. But you are. You know you are. And of course he noticed.

Sid exhales hard, his hands smoothing up and down your back, grounding you. "Yeah, you are," he murmurs. "I can feel it. I know you."

You don’t say anything. You don’t know what to say.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands firm on your lower back, like he’s keeping you right there. “Don’t—don’t hold onto me like you’re saying goodbye.” His throat bobs. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t do that.”

You drop your gaze to his chest, fingers still playing at his hairline. “I don’t know what else to do.” Your voice is small, raw.

Sid groans softly, tilting his forehead against yours, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. “You stay,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You stay right here. With me.”

Your breath stutters, and for the first time, you let yourself look at him. Really look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, tired, his expression so full of regret it hurts to see.

Then finally, Sid sighs, long and slow. "You're right. I fucked up,” he admits, voice rough, thick with something heavy. “I disrespected you. I got caught up in everything.”

Your fingers still in his hair.

Sid sighs, his other hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles against the small of your back. “I let myself get pulled into conversation, into all the bullshit, I forgot what was really important tonight. And I’ll never be able to apologize enough for that.”

You blink up at him, studying the way his brows are drawn, the way his mouth is set in a hard, miserable line.

Sid shakes his head at himself, eyes flickering over your face, guilt written in every line of his own. “I’m an idiot,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “There’s a million fucking things I should’ve done differently tonight.”

Your throat tightens, and you nod because—yeah. There are.

Sid exhales sharply, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly under your eye. “But I’m not losing you over this,” he murmurs, voice low, firm. “I won’t.”

You swallow, your fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “Sid—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna lose you over this.” His voice is quiet but firm, like an unshakable promise. “I won’t accept it. One bad night isn’t gonna ruin what we have.” His hands drop to your waist again, holding you steady, grounding you. “It’s too special.You’re too fucking special.”

Your chest aches, your fingers flexing against his shirt. And you believe him. You do.

Because this is Sid. Your Sid. The man who worships the ground you walk on, who loves you fiercely, who cares.

So you just look at him for a moment, drinking him in—the hazel hue of his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most important fucking thing in the world.

Sid brushes his nose against yours, his voice softer now. “I love you too fucking much to let this be the thing that breaks us.”

And for the first time all night, you feel something loosen in your chest.

He studies you for a moment, eyes flickering over your face like he’s trying to gauge where your head is at. Then, more quietly, “You do know that, right?”

And yeah. Yeah, you do.

You nod slowly, and Sid lets out a breath, relief flickering across his features.

“I know you’re upset with me,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You should be. I’d be fucking pissed if I were you.” He gives a half-smile, but it’s small, cautious, like he’s afraid to push too soon.

Your lips twitch, just barely, and that’s all he needs.

He exhales, leaning in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I mean it, baby,” he says against your skin. “I love you. And I hate that I made you feel like anything less than the most important fucking person in that room tonight.”

You sigh, leaning into him again, and this time, it feels different.

Softer. More you and him.

Sid watches you carefully, eyes flickering over your face like he’s searching for something. “Come back to me, my love,” he murmurs. “Please.”

You press your lips together, exhaling slowly.

And then, quietly, “I’m right here.”

And just like that, his shoulders sag with relief. You exhale slowly, your breath still finding its rhythm, but the ache in your chest has softened. Sid’s eyes stay on you, unwavering, searching, like he’s waiting for you to say something—anything.

And you believe him. You do. Because even though tonight fucking sucked, even though you spent hours feeling like you didn’t belong, even though you had to sit with the humiliation of being overlooked by everyone, including the one person who should have seen you—you love him. You love him, and you know he loves you too.

What you have is special. It’s everything. 

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like he might slip away if you don’t. But he’s not going anywhere. You can feel it in the way he holds you, the way his hands splay across your back, like he’s trying to mold you against him, like he’s making sure you’re real.

Sid exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. His fingers trace lazy circles at the base of your spine, grounding you. “Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs. “Let me in.”

Your throat tightens, the lump still there, even though the sharp edges of your anger have dulled. “I hate feeling like this,” you admit, your voice quiet.

Sid’s hands tighten around you. “I know,” he says softly, and the way he says it—like he really knows, like he gets it—makes you feel even closer to tears.

“I don’t—” You break off, shaking your head against him. “I don’t want to be mad at you.”

Sid sighs, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “Then don’t,” he murmurs, voice softer, lighter now. “Just love me.”

You let out a watery laugh, and he feels it, his arms tightening as he presses his forehead to yours. “Baby,” he says again, so fucking tender, like he’s pouring every ounce of love he has for you into that single word.

Then, after a moment, his voice comes quiet, hesitant. Hopeful.

“We’re okay, right?”

It’s so soft. So careful. Like he’s afraid of the answer. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s still a little scared you might walk away.

You let out a slow breath, thinking. Feeling.

“I think so,” you whisper.

Sid exhales sharply, a little relieved sound, and he nudges his nose against yours, affectionate, familiar. His fingers tighten briefly against your back before his hands smooth over you, slow and steady.

“Good,” he murmurs, lips brushing lightly against your temple. “’Cause I don’t think I could fucking take it if we weren’t.”

A small, breathy exhale leaves you, and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a laugh. Almost.

Sid hears it, feels the way your body relaxes just the smallest bit, and it’s like he latches onto it, chases after it.

“Jesus, babe,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another, then another. “I feel like I aged ten fucking years tonight.”

That gets a real laugh out of you—quiet, small, but real.

Sid pulls back slightly, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize you, trying to read every single emotion on your face. His thumb brushes over your cheek, gently.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching just the slightest bit, like he’s trying to smile but doesn’t want to push it too soon.

Your throat tightens at the warmth in his voice, the relief. The way he says my girl like it’s fact.

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him, the safety of him. His fingers slide up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing gently over the apple of your cheek. “We’re okay,” he says, like he needs you to know it. Like if he says it enough times, you’ll believe it too.

And you do. You do.

You let out a slow, shaky breath, nuzzling into his touch. “I love you,” you whisper, barely audible, but he hears it.

Sid lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a sigh, almost relief. “Fuck,” he breathes, tilting his head just enough to press his lips to yours—not desperate, not rushed, just there. Just a promise. Just an I love you too.

[goldfades]

ICE QUEEN & HER HOCKEY PLAYER──CROSBY⁸⁷

for this request!

─ summary | long awaited: crosby x figure skater where they both meet early in their careers and are not impressed by each other, so kinda enemies, they end up at the 2010 olympics and they still dont like each other but they both carry great pressure and basically just them falling in love over the years and of course the media would be highly involved in two generational talents

─ pairing | sidney crosby x fem!reader

─ word count | 19k

─ warnings | slooooow burn, angsty but gets very fluffy toward the end, lmk if yall want a part 2!!

─ ev's notes | thank you my babies cassie & amber for beta reading, yall are the best!!!!!! go give them some love<3 @v6quewrlds @sc0tters

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

You first saw him across the rink, his focus sharp as he moved effortlessly through drills, like he was born on ice. It wasn’t admiration that struck you, though—more like irritation. Sidney Crosby. The “next one,” they called him. All this talent, all this praise, and yet here he was, gliding around like he had something to prove.

Not that you cared.

You had your own path, your own climb. Figure skating was different, but the pressure was just as suffocating. Every jump, every spin felt like the world was watching, expecting perfection. So why did it bother you, seeing him here, looking so... untouchable?

Your coach nudged you, urging you to focus, but you couldn’t help the flicker of competition that lit in your chest. He was just another athlete. Another story. And you, well, you were writing your own.

But something in the way his eyes met yours—cool, unreadable—told you that this wasn’t the last time you’d cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

You try to brush it off, turn your focus back to the ice beneath your feet, but that small moment lingers. His presence sticks with you, even as you push through your routine, every movement precise, practiced. It’s all muscle memory at this point, but somehow, your mind keeps drifting back to him. The way he didn’t seem phased by anything, not even you.

You lace your skates with a quiet determination, the cold air of the rink biting at your skin even though you’ve grown used to it. Every day, same routine. You’ve always found a strange comfort in that—the familiar rhythm of blade on ice, the tension before takeoff, the brief moment when you’re airborne, weightless, before gravity pulls you back. It’s your world, your escape. Everything else fades away here.

Except today, something lingers. Or rather, someone.

Sidney Crosby.

The name alone carries an echo in every corner of the sports world, like he’s already a legend and not just some kid skating circles with his team. You’re not immune to the whispers that float around the rink whenever he’s nearby—the excited murmurs from your teammates, the starry-eyed awe in the younger skaters who dream of meeting him, as if proximity to greatness might somehow rub off on them.

But that’s not you.

You’ve worked too hard to be impressed by anyone anymore. You’ve scraped your way to this point, each pirouette and double axel carved out of relentless practice, not natural-born talent. Sure, you’ve got skill, but it was earned—honed through hours of falling and getting back up again. Nobody handed you anything.

And him?

You glance toward the far end of the rink where he’s going through drills with the same cool precision you’d expect from someone nicknamed “The Next One.” It’s not that you don’t respect his ability—no, that’s not it at all. The guy moves like he was built for this. But there’s something infuriating about the way he carries himself, as if being good—no, great—comes so effortlessly to him, like it’s just a given.

You bend down, adjusting the tightness on your skates. You're focusing on the details, making sure everything is just right, because that’s what you do. That’s who you are. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. Sidney Crosby, meanwhile, looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and for some reason, that grates at you.

Your coach claps his hands, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you move into your routine. Instinct takes over as you push off from the boards and glide onto the ice, the familiar sting of cold rushing against your cheeks. Your legs pump rhythmically, each motion deliberate and precise. You lose yourself in the movement—the stretch of your arms, the swing of your leg as you enter a jump. For a moment, it’s just you and the ice, the world falling away in the face of the one thing that still makes sense.

But not for long.

Because when you land, your gaze drifts again—over to where Crosby’s skating, his sharp turns cutting into the ice with a sound that digs under your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. It’s infuriating.

You’re coming down from a series of spins when you hear a voice—your teammate. “You’re really in the zone today,” she says, breathless and smiling as she skates up beside you.

“Yeah, trying to be,” you reply, breathing heavily, trying to focus on anything but him.

Your teammate leans in a little, lowering her voice like she’s about to share some big secret. “Did you hear the news? Crosby’s making waves already. Some scouts are saying he’s the real deal—like, generational talent.”

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “Aren’t they all?”

She grins, nudging you playfully. “Come on, don’t pretend like you’re not a little curious. Everyone’s talking about him.”

“That’s the problem,” you mutter under your breath.

Your teammate skates off, oblivious, leaving you standing there with the weight of that name hanging over your head. Sidney Crosby. It’s like the universe just wants to shove him in your face.

Fine, you think. Let him have his spotlight. Let him be the guy everyone’s fawning over. But you? You’re not here for that. You’ve got your own goals, your own pressures, and the last thing you need is to get wrapped up in some star athlete’s orbit.

You push off again, forcing yourself back into your routine, ignoring the nagging itch that comes with every glance toward his side of the ice. But it’s impossible to drown out completely. You can feel his presence like a shadow, always there, always in the corner of your eye.

When you finally step off the ice, muscles aching in that satisfying way that comes after a hard session, you tell yourself you’re done with him. Done with thinking about the golden boy who’s probably coasting on talent alone.

Yet, as you untie your skates, his image still clings to the edges of your mind—the sharpness in his movements, the quiet intensity in his face, the way he seemed so utterly... unbothered. Like nothing, not even you, could break his focus.

In the locker room, the conversation drifts back to him, as it always seems to. The chatter is almost relentless—"Did you see how fast Crosby is? The way he handles the puck?"—and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes again. You try to tune it out, focusing instead on the methodical task of packing your gear.

But as you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the exit, the door swings open. And of course, there he is. Crosby, walking in with that same laser focus, gear in hand, barely acknowledging anyone around him.

He doesn’t look at you. Not even a flicker of recognition as he passes by. It’s almost laughable, how oblivious he is. You half expect him to at least give you a nod or a half-smile, something—anything—to show he knows you exist.

But no. Nothing.

You let out a huff, brushing past him as you walk out. There’s no reason for this to bother you, really. You don’t need his approval, and you definitely don’t need him to notice you.

Still, as the door swings shut behind you, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be the last time you cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

Not by a long shot.

───

“Again!” Your coach’s voice cuts through the air like a whip, sharp and biting, echoing across the empty rink. You’ve been at this for hours, it feels like—your muscles are screaming, every part of your body aching, but none of that matters. Not to him.

You swallow the frustration that bubbles in your throat, biting back the urge to snap. Instead, you skate back to the center of the ice, forcing your legs to cooperate, the burn in your calves a constant reminder of how long you’ve been doing this. It’s not good enough, though. Not for him. And, if you’re honest with yourself, not for you either.

You’re trying to perfect your triple Lutz, but every time you attempt the jump, something feels off—your rotation, your timing, maybe even your mindset. Your blade scrapes the ice as you reset, steadying your breath, forcing yourself to focus.

“Go again!” he shouts, his voice almost hoarse now, and you push off, gathering speed. The rink blurs around you as you build up momentum, arms tight, posture straight, the way you’ve been drilled to do since you were a kid. You hit the jump—lift off—but somewhere in the second rotation, it happens again. You come down wrong, your ankle buckling as you land too heavily on your right skate.

Your coach swears under his breath. “What was that? You’re rushing! Slow down, get your rotation tighter—again!”

You don’t say anything. You just grit your teeth and skate back into position. It’s not like you’re unfamiliar with this kind of pressure—no, this is your life. Perfection or nothing. You’ve heard the speeches, felt the disappointment every time you come up short. You know it’s about pushing yourself past your limits.

But right now, with every muscle in your body screaming at you to stop, you’re beginning to wonder if there’s anything left to push through.

“Let’s go, again!”

You roll your eyes but quickly hide it. He’s watching, waiting for you to slip, and he’ll never let you hear the end of it if you show any sign of weakness. So, you breathe in deeply, shake out your arms, and steel yourself. Just one more. One more and you’ll nail it.

You skate hard, the familiar whoosh of ice beneath your blades almost comforting, like the calm before the storm. As you go into the jump, everything seems to click—your body feels lighter, your rotation sharper, and you think, for a second, that you’ve got it.

Then the ice meets you like a slap to the face. Your blade catches, and you fall, hard, knees scraping the cold surface as the impact sends a sharp shock through your legs. You feel the familiar sting of embarrassment heating your cheeks before the pain even registers.

“Are you kidding me?” Your coach’s voice booms across the ice, frustration crackling in every word. “You’re better than this! Do it again, and this time, stop messing around!”

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you haul yourself up, limbs heavy and protesting. You can feel the sharp eyes of your coach drilling into you, his disappointment palpable even from a distance. And as you push yourself upright, swallowing down the lump of frustration lodged in your throat, something shifts at the edge of your vision.

Sidney Crosby.

Of course.

He’s on the ice now, on the other side of the rink, going through his own drills with an almost inhuman precision. His strides are powerful, fluid, each movement perfectly controlled. He makes it look easy. Like he always does.

You hate that it bothers you, but it does. Watching him now, so effortlessly skating through his practice, it only sharpens the contrast between his ease and your exhaustion. It’s like the universe has decided to throw him in your face every chance it gets.

You force your gaze away, back to the task at hand. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than whatever golden-boy magic Crosby is working over there. Your coach is waiting for you to try again, arms crossed, his face a storm of impatience.

“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to land this?” he snaps.

You nod, swallowing down the irritation that’s rising in your chest. He’s right. You can’t let this beat you. You won’t.

You take a deep breath, center yourself, and push off, the sound of your blades cutting through the ice grounding you. This time, you focus harder, your mind narrowing in on each detail of the jump. Speed, lift, rotation, land. One step at a time. You block out everything—your coach, the ache in your legs, and definitely Sidney Crosby.

You launch yourself into the air, feeling the smooth power of the jump. For a moment, you’re weightless, and it feels right—until, once again, you come down a hair too early, your blade skidding out from under you. You stumble but don’t fall this time, catching yourself just in time.

“Better,” your coach mutters. “But not good enough.”

You barely hear him, though, because when you glance up, you catch Crosby watching you out of the corner of his eye. It’s subtle, just a flicker of attention, but it’s there. His face is unreadable, but you don’t need to see his expression to know what he’s thinking.

She’s struggling.

And for some reason, that thought sets your nerves on fire.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

The thought flares in your mind, sudden and irrational, but you grab onto it like a lifeline. It’s ridiculous—you know that. He’s not even competing with you. Hell, he probably doesn’t even care about you right now, but it’s too late. The idea’s already wormed its way in, digging deep into that part of your brain that refuses to back down from a challenge. Even if it’s one you made up.

You grit your teeth, fists tightening as you push off for another go. The anger fuels you, hot and biting, spreading through your limbs like wildfire. Suddenly, the exhaustion that’s been weighing you down all practice disappears, replaced by a sharp, laser-focused determination.

This time, when you skate, it’s different. Every movement is smoother, sharper. The ice feels like it’s bending to your will instead of working against you. As you approach the jump, you don’t hesitate. There’s no second-guessing, no nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you what could go wrong.

You launch yourself into the air, and everything falls into place. The height, the speed, the rotation—it’s all perfect. You land with a crisp, sharp sound, your blades slicing through the ice as if they were always meant to. No stumble, no misstep. Just perfection.

The rink is silent.

You glance over at your coach, and he’s standing there, mouth slightly open, completely stunned. His arms drop to his sides, the frustration and irritation from earlier replaced with disbelief. For a split second, even he can’t believe what just happened.

“That…” he starts, still catching up to what he’s seen. “That was perfect.”

You feel the rush of satisfaction, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips, but before you can fully relish the moment, your gaze slides across the ice—right back to Sidney Crosby.

And there it is.

A smirk.

Small, barely noticeable, but unmistakably there, tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you. It’s infuriating. The heat of your anger that had just started to cool flares up again, boiling over. You know it’s ridiculous. You know you shouldn’t care. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he knew exactly what just happened, like he’s somehow responsible for flipping that switch in you.

It’s smug. Too smug.

You feel your fingers curl into fists at your sides, the triumph of your flawless landing fading as quickly as it came. It’s not enough. Not when he thinks he had something to do with it. The thought of him thinking that he was the reason you nailed that jump makes you grit your teeth all over again.

Your coach calls out, voice still tinged with amazement. “Take a break—you earned it. That was the best I’ve seen all season.”

You nod, skating off toward the edge of the rink, but your eyes never leave Crosby’s. He’s back to his drills now, that infuriating little smirk gone, replaced by that same focused intensity he always has. Like you don’t even exist. Like he’s already moved on.

But you haven’t.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win. You repeat the mantra to yourself, feeling that fire spark inside you once more.

This is only the beginning.

───

“I’m telling you, he’s got it out for me,” you say, waving your glass in the air as you slump back in your seat. “It's like, every time I look up, there he is, judging me with those stupid, intense eyes. Like he’s some kind of skating god who knows better than the rest of us.”

Your teammates snicker around the table, but you can tell they’re more amused by your dramatics than actually concerned. Abby, sitting across from you, rolls her eyes, sipping her drink with an amused smirk.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she says. “Because Sidney Crosby is totally obsessed with you, out of all people. That’s what he does with his free time.”

“I’m serious!” You huff, propping your elbows on the table. “Every time I mess up, he’s there. Just... lurking in the background. Like some smug, perfectly-groomed shadow, judging me. I swear he enjoys it.”

Tasha, who’s been quietly sipping her beer next to you, finally chimes in. “Are you sure he’s not just, you know, existing and you’re projecting all your frustrations onto him?”

You glare at her, but she only grins, nudging your arm. “I’m just saying, maybe he’s just trying to live his life and it’s not all about you.”

“I don’t project,” you grumble. “I’m very rational. This is just... observation.”

Abby nearly spits out her drink, laughing. “You’re so full of it. Admit it, you just don’t like that he’s good at literally everything. It messes with your perfectionist brain.”

“You’d hate him less if you stopped watching him all the time,” Tasha adds, teasing.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table with a thud. “I don’t watch him. He’s just always there. Like a bad omen with a hockey stick.”

“Yeah, well,” Abby shrugs, “I’d be there too if I were as good as him. Honestly, if you weren’t so busy hating him, you’d probably respect him a little. Maybe you two would even be—”

“Don’t.” You cut her off, lifting your head with a glare. “Don’t even suggest we could be friends. Or worse—something else. That’s the last thing I need right now.”

Tasha grins mischievously. “Well, considering how much you’re talking about him, it sounds like he might be the only thing you need right now.”

You swat at her playfully, but before you can respond, the loud crash of a door opening interrupts your rant. The energy in the bar shifts immediately as a group of loud, rowdy voices enters the room. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it—the sudden frat-boy energy that seems to follow them wherever they go.

“Speak of the devil,” Abby mutters under her breath, clearly amused.

Sure enough, you glance toward the entrance, and there they are. Sidney Crosby and his teammates, rolling into the bar like they own the place. They’re loud, obnoxious, the exact opposite of what you wanted for this low-key evening. You watch as they laugh, shove each other, and call out to the bartender as if they’ve been best friends for years.

Sidney, of course, is in the center of it all—looking as effortlessly cool as ever in a black jacket and backward baseball cap. His laugh booms across the bar, and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “Why are they always like this? Who gave them permission to act like frat boys in public?”

“Relax,” Abby says, still laughing at your expense. “It’s not like they’re doing anything wrong.”

“They’re just breathing, and it’s bothering you,” Tasha adds with a smirk.

“I can’t help it!” You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “They walk in here like they own the place. No one’s even looking at them, and somehow they just... demand attention.”

As if on cue, Sidney’s voice rises above the noise, calling out to one of his teammates with a laugh that carries through the entire bar. His presence is magnetic, drawing attention even when he’s not trying, and you hate how aware of him you are.

“I’m telling you,” you say, turning back to your friends. “This is a sign. The universe is trying to ruin my peace.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Abby teases. “The universe doesn’t revolve around you and Sidney Crosby. Just let it go.”

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you declare, crossing your arms stubbornly. “He’s not worth my energy.”

But as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel a pair of eyes land on you. You glance up—and of course, it’s him. Sidney freaking Crosby. He’s looking right at you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, almost as if he knows exactly what you were just complaining about.

Your stomach flips, and suddenly, the heat rushes to your face. Great, just what you needed. You quickly look away, trying to pretend like you hadn’t been caught mid-rant about him for the umpteenth time.

Abby leans in, her voice low and teasing. “So... what’s that about not caring?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your drink and downing the rest in one go.

Tasha bursts out laughing. “You’re so done for.”

“Am not,” you grumble, avoiding Sidney’s gaze. But you can still feel his eyes on you, that stupid smirk lingering in your mind, and you can’t shake the thought that, maybe, just maybe, he does enjoy messing with you.

Or worse—maybe you enjoy it too.

Later, you found yourself alone. You lean against the bar, the cool wood pressing into your forearms as you wait for the bartender to notice you. The noise of the bar hums around you—laughter, clinking glasses, some bad country song playing in the background. But for the first time since Sidney Crosby and his squad of obnoxious teammates showed up, you’ve managed to relax a little. Maybe it’s the alcohol kicking in or maybe it’s because you’ve successfully avoided looking in his direction for the past half hour. Either way, you feel lighter.

You tap your fingers against the counter impatiently, scanning the crowd for the bartender, trying not to let your mind wander back to Sidney. You promised yourself you weren’t going to let him ruin your night, and you’re doing a decent job of it so far. No reason to let him take up more space in your head than he already does.

"Hey, can I get another drink over here?" you call out to the bartender, who finally catches your eye and nods.

Just as you start to relax, though, you feel it—that presence. It’s like your body knows he’s there before you even see him, a tingle that runs up your spine, making your muscles tense involuntarily.

You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sidney’s voice is smooth, low, and far too casual, like he’s not already driving you insane.

You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes before you even face him. Great. Of course, he’d pick now to show up. When you’re alone. Just your luck.

Sidney leans against the bar beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, but not so close that it feels like he’s crowding you. He’s got this irritatingly effortless way of taking up space without trying. It’s like the universe bends around him, making sure everyone notices when he’s around.

“What do you want?” you ask, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice as you finally turn to face him. You don’t have the patience for his smug attitude tonight.

He’s leaning casually with one elbow on the bar, looking at you with that infuriating half-smirk, like he finds the whole situation amusing. His backward cap is still in place, strands of hair peeking out messily, and his eyes glint with something that feels way too much like a challenge.

“What makes you think I want something?” he asks, his voice almost teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Because you don’t come over here for no reason.”

Sidney chuckles softly, and the sound grates on your nerves. “Maybe I just wanted to say hi. You know, be friendly.”

“Since when are we friendly?” you shoot back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Pretty sure we’ve never been that.”

He shrugs, still smiling, as if your hostility only makes this more fun for him. “There’s a first time for everything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to gauge his angle. It’s impossible to tell if he’s genuinely trying to make conversation or if he’s just here to mess with you. Either way, you’re not having it.

“Look, Crosby,” you say, your voice sharp, “if you’re here to annoy me, you’re wasting your time. I’m not in the mood.”

His smirk widens, and for some reason, it makes your stomach flip in a way you don’t like. “Who said anything about annoying you?”

You let out a huff of frustration, leaning back against the bar and glaring at him. “You always do. Every time you show up, it’s like you can’t help but get under my skin.”

Sidney tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering your words, but the smirk never leaves his face. “Maybe that’s because you make it so easy.”

The nerve of this guy. You open your mouth to fire back, but the bartender finally appears with your drink, placing it in front of you. You grab it with a quick thanks, eager for a distraction. Anything to avoid looking at Sidney and that stupid grin of his.

“Why do you even care?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink. “You don’t know me. We’re in completely different worlds.”

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those annoyingly intense eyes, like he’s trying to figure something out about you. It’s unsettling, but you refuse to let him see that he’s getting to you. You’ve already let him mess with your head enough tonight.

“Maybe I don’t know you,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But you’re interesting. More interesting than half the people I’ve met in this sport.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “Interesting?”

He nods, that playful glint still in his eyes. “Yeah. You’re not like everyone else. Most people just... try to stay out of the way, keep their heads down, play nice. But you? You don’t take shit from anyone. I like that.”

You snort, unable to help yourself. “So what, you’re saying you like me because I don’t like you?”

Sidney laughs, and the sound is so warm, so genuine, that it throws you off for a second. It’s not the cocky laugh you’re used to hearing from him on the ice. This one feels... real.

“I’m saying I like a challenge,” he says, his eyes gleaming with something that makes your heart race even though you really don’t want it to. “And you’re definitely a challenge.”

A challenge. That word lingers in the air between you, heavy and charged, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the way he said it or because of how it makes you feel. Because on some level, you know he’s right. You are a challenge. You’ve always been a challenge. And maybe that’s part of why he gets under your skin so easily—because he’s not backing down.

But you’re not backing down either.

“Well, if you think you can just waltz in here and... what? Win me over?” you scoff, taking another sip of your drink. “Good luck with that, Crosby. I don’t go down that easy.”

Sidney leans in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I never said I wanted you to go down easy.”

The words hang between you, thick with tension, and you feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your chest despite your best efforts to stay calm. His eyes stay locked on yours, and for a split second, you forget where you are, forget everything except the way his gaze makes you feel like he’s seeing through every layer of defense you’ve built up.

It takes everything in you not to let him see how much he’s affecting you. You keep your expression neutral, lips pressed into a tight line as you lean back, forcing some distance between you.

“You really think you can get to me with a few smooth lines?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Sidney shrugs again, but this time there’s a hint of something more serious behind his smile. “I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”

You glare at him, feeling that familiar frustration bubbling up again, but there’s something else there now too—something you don’t want to acknowledge. Something that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you say, standing up from the bar and giving him one last, pointed look. “I’m not as easy to figure out as you think.”

Sidney just smiles, leaning back against the bar as he watches you walk away, and you can feel his eyes on you the whole time.

“Good,” he calls after you. “I like a good mystery.”

You don’t look back, but damn it, his voice follows you all the way out of the bar, and it’s all you can think about for the rest of the night.

───

The rink is nearly deserted when you stayed that night, after practice. The cold air bites at your exposed skin, but it feels like a relief after the stuffiness of the bar. You needed this—the wide-open space, the sound of your skates carving into the ice, the familiar rhythm of movement that helps drown out all the noise in your head.

You plug in your phone to the speaker system, scrolling through your playlists until you settle on something fitting for the mood—dramatic, sweeping classical music, the kind that builds and builds until it feels like it’s going to break something wide open. It’s exactly what you need right now.

As the first notes fill the rink, you skate to the center, closing your eyes for just a moment, letting the music wash over you. The stress, the frustration, the lingering burn from your interaction with Sidney—it all simmers beneath the surface, but here, on the ice, you know how to channel it. You’ve always been able to let the pressure fuel you, turning frustration into focus.

Opening your eyes, you push off, gliding across the ice with an easy grace that comes from years of muscle memory. The music builds, and you pick up speed, letting the intensity of the sound guide your movements. Each jump, each spin, feels sharper than before, more deliberate. There’s no audience, no competition, just you and the ice and the echo of the music in the empty arena.

You land a triple axel cleanly, but it’s not enough. Not tonight. You need more.

I’m not going to let Crosby win. The thought flashes in your mind, unbidden, but once it’s there, you can’t shake it. It’s ridiculous—Sidney’s not even here, not even part of this—but somehow, he’s still under your skin, pushing you to go harder, to be better.

The frustration builds, a knot tightening in your chest, and with a surge of anger, you launch into another jump, pushing yourself to the limit. You flip in the air, body twisting with precision, and when your skates hit the ice again, the landing is so clean, so perfect, that even you’re stunned for a moment.

Your coach isn’t here to shout or correct you, but if he were, you know he’d be speechless. You nailed it.

You stop in the center of the rink, breathing heavily, staring down at the ice beneath your feet. How did you flip that switch so quickly? One second, you were spiraling, frustration threatening to spill over, and the next, you’re here—executing moves with a sharpness you didn’t think you had tonight.

It’s almost like—

“Nice landing.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you spin around, your skates squeaking on the ice as you search for the source of the voice.

Of course.

Sidney Crosby is standing in the entrance to the rink, leaning casually against the boards with his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that same infuriating half-smirk. His dark hoodie is pulled over his head, casting shadows over his face, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. You’d thought you were alone, but apparently, Sidney had other plans.

“Jesus—what the hell are you doing here?” you snap, pulse still racing from both the exertion and the shock of seeing him.

Sidney shrugs, as if he hasn’t just interrupted your entire night. “Could ask you the same thing.”

You narrow your eyes at him, pushing down the urge to scream. “I’m here because I’m training. What’s your excuse?”

He lifts an eyebrow, pushing off the boards and stepping onto the ice with ease, his skates gliding smoothly over the surface. “Didn’t realize you had the rink reserved.”

You cross your arms, glaring as he skates a slow circle around you, as if he’s sizing you up. The way he moves is so infuriatingly confident, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin.

“Sidney, I swear, if you’re here just to mess with me—”

He stops right in front of you, cutting you off with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “I’m not here to mess with you.” His voice drops a little, that playful edge still there but softer now. “Not unless you want me to.”

You take a step back, suddenly feeling a little too close to him. The music still plays in the background, dramatic strings swelling through the speakers, matching the tension that’s building between you two.

“Why are you really here?” you ask, trying to sound more composed than you feel. You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from skating or the fact that Sidney’s presence always seems to set you off, but your pulse is racing, and not just from the workout.

Sidney tilts his head slightly, watching you with those annoyingly intense eyes. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, echoing your earlier words. “You’ve been skating for hours. What’s got you so wound up?”

Your mouth opens to snap back, but you stop yourself, unsure how to answer. It’s not like you can tell him he’s part of the problem, that every time he shows up, he stirs something inside you that’s equal parts frustration and... something else you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m fine,” you finally say, your voice tight. “Just working on a few things.”

Sidney steps closer again, his eyes not leaving yours, and you can feel your defenses rising instinctively. He has this way of making you feel exposed, like he sees through every layer you put up.

“You don’t look fine,” he says quietly, the teasing edge fading from his voice. “You look like you’re trying to prove something.”

“I don’t have anything to prove to you,” you snap, more harshly than you intended.

Sidney doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even react to your tone. Instead, he just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to let your guard down.

“You don’t have anything to prove to me,” he agrees, his voice low, almost gentle now. “But it seems like you’re trying to prove something to yourself.”

The words hit you harder than you want to admit, and for a second, you feel the weight of the pressure you’ve been carrying—the constant need to be perfect, to land every jump, to be better than you were yesterday. And maybe, just maybe, part of that pressure comes from knowing that Sidney Crosby, of all people, has seen you falter.

Your hands tighten into fists, frustration bubbling up again, but this time it’s not aimed at Sidney—it’s aimed at yourself.

“What do you know about it?” you mutter, looking away from him, focusing on the ice instead of the way his presence is making you feel.

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, and when he does, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “More than you think.”

Something in his tone makes you glance up, and for the first time, you see something different in his eyes—not the usual cocky smirk, not the playful teasing. It’s something deeper, something you recognize.

Pressure. Expectation. The weight of the world on his shoulders, just like you carry on yours.

For a moment, the air between you shifts, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the music still playing softly in the background or because of the way Sidney is looking at you. There’s something unspoken hanging in the space between you, something fragile and real.

“I get it,” he says, his voice quiet. “The pressure. The feeling like you have to be perfect every time you step on the ice. I know what that’s like.”

You swallow hard, the walls you’ve built around yourself trembling slightly. You’re not used to Sidney Crosby being... this. Open. Vulnerable. It throws you off balance, makes you feel like you’re standing on shaky ground.

But before you can say anything, he steps back, giving you space, and the moment passes as quickly as it came.

“Anyway,” he says, his usual smirk slipping back into place, “just wanted to check in. See if you needed anything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to regain your composure. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Sidney grins, his playful edge back in full force. “Good. I like seeing you fired up.”

And just like that, the tension is back, simmering under the surface, and you’re left standing there, wondering how Sidney Crosby has managed to flip your world upside down in a matter of minutes.

As he skates away, you’re left with the echo of his words in your mind—and the realization that maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one who likes a challenge.

───

A few weeks later, the cold of early winter is biting harder, a constant reminder of what’s looming: the Olympics. The most important competition of your life. Every jump, every spin, every session on the ice has been building to this moment, and now, the pressure is so thick, it feels like it's settled in your bones.

You’re sitting in the locker room, your gear strewn across the bench beside you. The atmosphere is tense but electric. Today is the day they announce the official Olympic figure skating team, and though you know you've earned your spot, the nerves are impossible to shake. Even after years of preparation, the thought of representing your country on the world’s biggest stage makes your heart pound.

Your coach comes in first, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He claps you on the back, and you can feel the energy shift in the room.

“They’ve posted the roster,” he says, barely containing his pride. “You’re on the team.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and then the weight of them crashes down on you. You’re on the team. You’re going to the Olympics.

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your chest tight with a mix of relief and exhilaration. All the hours on the ice, the grueling practices, the mental battles—it’s all been worth it. You’re going to be part of something bigger than yourself, and for a moment, you let yourself revel in the feeling of accomplishment.

But then, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon, another thought creeps in: Sidney Crosby.

You haven't seen him since that night at the rink, but his presence has lingered, a constant shadow in your mind. He’s been picked too—you know it without even needing to check the roster. Of course he has. He's Sidney Crosby. A generational talent, just like they call you, only... more somehow. More polished, more famous, more everything. And now, the media will eat this up, won’t they? Two stars, both at the top of their games, both chasing Olympic glory, both—

You shake your head, pushing the thought away. You’re not going to let Sidney Crosby get into your head. Not when you’ve worked so hard to get here.

Your teammates rush into the room, their excitement contagious as they celebrate together. You laugh with them, letting the energy lift you for a moment, but in the back of your mind, that quiet tension still lingers. You can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of something bigger—and that Sidney is somehow going to be a part of it, whether you like it or not.

───

The night before the team heads out for the final round of pre-Olympic training, you find yourself back at the rink, once again pushing through a late-night session. The music is quieter this time, more contemplative, as you work on fine-tuning your routine. It’s just you and the ice, and for a little while, that’s enough.

Until the door creaks open again.

You stop mid-spin, your breath catching in your throat. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is—somehow, you can always tell when Sidney’s around. It’s like your body is wired to notice him, even when you don’t want to.

“What are you doing here?” you call out, not bothering to mask the annoyance in your voice.

Sidney doesn’t answer right away, but you hear the sound of his skates as he steps onto the ice, gliding easily toward you.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, his voice calm, almost too calm, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. “Training late again?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get to you. “Yeah, well, some of us still have work to do.”

Sidney chuckles softly, skating closer until he’s just a few feet away. “You really think you’ve got that much left to prove?”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t you?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer, his eyes searching yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something almost… curious. Then he shrugs, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice low. “But I’m not the one staying up all night to try and be perfect.”

His words hit a little too close to home, and you feel the flare of anger rise again. But before you can respond, Sidney’s already moving, skating around you with that effortless grace that somehow makes everything seem easy for him.

“You know,” he says, his tone light, “the media’s having a field day with this whole thing. Two Canadian stars, same Olympics, both at the top of their game. They love a good story.”

You roll your eyes, spinning around to face him. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Sidney’s grin widens, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s enjoying this more than he should. “You think they’ll keep us apart, or you think they’ll try to milk this for everything it’s worth?”

You cross your arms, refusing to play into whatever game he’s trying to start. “I don’t really care what the media does.”

Sidney stops in front of you, his eyes locking onto yours with that same intensity you’ve come to know all too well. “You sure about that?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a second, you’re not sure if he’s talking about the media… or something else entirely.

You stare at him for a moment, the weight of his gaze making the rink feel smaller, more intimate than it has any right to be. The soft hum of your music in the background seems distant now, a faraway echo compared to the silence between you. You want to say something cutting, to brush him off like you always do, but there's something different about this moment. It's not just annoyance. There's a challenge here—a tension, thick and electric, hovering just out of reach.

Sidney's eyebrow quirks up, and you feel your stomach twist in frustration. He's baiting you, but you don't know what game you're even playing anymore. And the worst part? He’s winning. Again.

"I'm sure," you finally manage to say, but your voice doesn’t carry the sharpness you intended. It's a little softer, almost uncertain, and you hate it. His smirk widens ever so slightly, like he's noticed it too.

"Good." Sidney pushes off the ice and skates a lazy circle around you, his movements fluid and deliberate, like he's taking his time to think about his next words. "Because it doesn't matter what they say. We're both here for the same reason—to win."

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there's a part of you that knows he's right. You didn’t get this far by letting other people’s opinions get in your head. You worked for this. Hard. Late nights, endless drills, pushing yourself past your limits just to prove to everyone—and maybe to yourself—that you deserved to be here. That you belonged.

But somehow, Sidney Crosby always finds a way to make you feel like you're still fighting for that validation. Like there's always something left to prove.

"And here I thought you were just here for the cameras," you say, your words sharper now, biting back with the edge you'd been missing earlier. "They do love a good Sidney Crosby story, don't they?"

Sidney doesn't react the way you expect. He doesn’t bristle or fire back. Instead, he just smiles, a slow, knowing grin that almost—almost—looks genuine. "Maybe. But they’re not the ones I’m trying to impress."

Your heart skips, just for a second, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. You blink, trying to keep your composure, to ignore the way your body betrays you under his gaze.

"Right." You scoff again, trying to laugh it off. "You don’t have to impress anyone, do you?"

Sidney stops, coming to a smooth halt just in front of you. He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his breath fogs in the cold air between you. He tilts his head, that smirk fading into something else. Something more serious.

"Everyone's got something to prove," he says quietly. His voice is low, almost a whisper, like it's a confession meant for you and only you. "Even me."

For a second, you don’t know what to say. His words catch you off guard, and you feel the weight of them sink in, wrapping around you like the cold air of the rink. You've always seen Sidney as untouchable, a star so far beyond reach that nothing could ever shake him. But now, standing here, staring at him, you realize he’s just as human as you. Maybe even just as scared.

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, the walls you’ve built around yourself start to crack. But before you can respond—before you can even process what’s happening—Sidney’s already pushing away, skating back toward the other end of the rink, like the moment never happened.

"Good luck with the routine," he calls over his shoulder, his voice light again, casual. "See you in Vancouver."

You stand there for a long time after he’s gone, the rink feeling empty without him. Your mind is racing, filled with thoughts you don’t want to acknowledge. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter. You’ll go to the Olympics, skate your heart out, and that’s all that matters.

But deep down, you know things have changed. And no matter how hard you try, Sidney Crosby is already under your skin.

The weeks leading up to the Olympics pass in a blur of training, media appearances, and endless speculation. The pressure builds with every day, every practice, every headline that pits you and Sidney against each other. It’s exhausting, and yet, part of you thrives on it. The stakes, the attention, the challenge. It's what you’ve always worked for.

But it’s also terrifying. Because every time you step on the ice, you know there are a million eyes watching, waiting for you to slip. And every time Sidney’s name comes up—whether it’s in an interview or in passing—it’s like a spark of irritation flares up inside you, reminding you that he’s still there, always lingering in the background of your mind.

The final week before the Olympics, you find yourself at a press conference, surrounded by reporters. You’ve done a thousand of these before, but this one feels different. The energy in the room is palpable, buzzing with anticipation as everyone prepares for the biggest event of the year.

And of course, the first question they ask isn’t about your routine or your preparation. It’s about Sidney.

“So, Y/N, you and Sidney Crosby have both been named as Canada’s biggest medal hopes this year. How do you feel about that?”

You force a smile, even though you want to roll your eyes. “I feel great about it. Sidney’s an incredible athlete, and it’s an honor to be mentioned alongside him.”

The reporter doesn’t stop there. “Do you think the rivalry between the two of you has helped push you both to new heights?”

You want to laugh. Rivalry? Is that what they’re calling it now?

“I think we’re both just focused on doing our best for our country,” you say diplomatically, but the answer feels hollow even to you. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, the rivalry is there. It’s always been there, even before the media latched onto it.

It’s not just about skating or hockey or who wins the most medals. It’s about something deeper—something neither of you has been willing to admit yet.

After the press conference, you slip out of the room as quickly as possible, your mind still buzzing with thoughts of Sidney. You’ve seen him a few times in passing since that night at the rink, but neither of you has said much. There’s been no need. The tension is there, lingering between you, always simmering just below the surface.

And now, with the Olympics just days away, it feels like everything is coming to a head.

You don’t know what’s going to happen in Vancouver, but one thing’s for sure: Sidney Crosby isn’t going to be easy to forget.

───

The sun barely peeks over the Vancouver skyline as you step into the bustling arena, the energy already electric despite the early hour. It’s the first day of the Winter Olympics, and the anticipation in the air is palpable. Athletes mill around, warming up and going through their routines, while coaches and officials rush to prepare the rink and finalize schedules.

The ice skating events are divided by discipline, with singles, pairs, and ice dance categories each occupying different time slots throughout the day. You’re scheduled for the women’s short program later this afternoon, but you arrive early to settle your nerves and observe the competition. It’s been a long time coming—years of training, countless sacrifices, and now, it’s finally here.

As you watch the men’s short program unfold, you catch glimpses of familiar faces—skaters you’ve competed against on the international circuit. The stands fill with excited spectators, flags waving, the hum of different languages mingling in the air. You take it all in, your gaze flitting from one skater to the next, mentally noting their performances.

And then, you see him.

Sidney is seated with a group of Team Canada athletes near the edge of the rink, his attention fixed on the ice. He’s wearing the official red and white tracksuit, his posture relaxed, and his expression serious. You know he’s here to support his teammates, but it doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering. You haven’t spoken since the night at the rink, and the tension still lingers, unspoken but ever-present.

You try to focus on the skaters on the ice, but your gaze keeps drifting back to Sidney. He’s surrounded by people, but his eyes seem distant, as if his mind is somewhere else. A part of you wants to approach him, to say something, anything, to break the silence that’s grown between you. But there’s no time for that now. Not when everything you’ve worked for is at stake.

A sudden cheer erupts from the crowd as one of the Canadian skaters finishes his routine with a flawless quad jump. Sidney stands, applauding along with the rest of the crowd, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours across the arena. It’s a fleeting connection—one that sends a jolt through you—before you quickly look away, your pulse quickening.

You remind yourself why you’re here. It’s not for Sidney. It’s for the chance to compete on the world’s biggest stage, to prove to yourself—and to everyone else—that you belong.

Hours later, as the women’s short program draws near, you’re in the locker room, lacing up your skates and taking deep breaths. You can hear the muffled sounds of the arena through the walls—cheers, announcements, and the faint strains of music from other performances. Your coach is by your side, offering words of encouragement and going over last-minute details of your routine.

When your name is called, you make your way to the ice, nerves and adrenaline surging in equal measure. The arena is packed now, the crowd buzzing with excitement. You take your position at the center of the rink, the bright lights shining down on you, and as the music begins, you shut out everything else—Sidney, the pressure, the noise—focusing solely on the routine you’ve practiced countless times.

As you step onto the ice, the chill bites at your exposed skin, the cold seeping into your muscles despite the hours of warming up backstage. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of the rink—a mix of ice, metal, and adrenaline—filling your lungs.

The bright lights of the arena are almost blinding, but you’ve grown used to the glare. It’s everything else that’s harder to ignore: the noise of the crowd, the anticipation hanging in the air, and the weight of every expectation you’ve ever placed on yourself.

Your name echoes through the arena, and you take your starting position at the center of the rink, feeling the world close in around you. It’s just you and the ice. You’ve done this routine a thousand times—maybe more—in practice. You know every step, every jump, every nuance of the music. But the stakes are different now, and doubt has a way of creeping in when you need confidence most.

The music begins, a soft piano melody that rises and falls like a tide. You push off, gliding into your opening spin, your body rotating effortlessly as your arms sweep out to the sides. For a moment, you feel a flicker of hope—this part, at least, feels right. But as you transition into the next sequence, the familiar pattern you’ve rehearsed starts to fray at the edges.

Your first jump, the triple flip, is where the anxiety tightens its grip. You approach the takeoff, heart racing, and launch yourself into the air. For a split second, you feel weightless, suspended above the ice, but then something feels off. Your body twists at the wrong angle, your balance shifts too soon. You land, but the landing is sloppy—your skate scrapes the ice, and you wobble, arms flailing to steady yourself.

Panic surges through you, hot and electric. It’s only the beginning of the program, and already you’ve stumbled. You try to shake it off, but the rhythm is broken, and your mind spirals into self-criticism.

You practiced this a thousand times. Why didn’t you get it right?

The next element is a step sequence, a chance to regain your composure, but the nagging voice in your head won’t let up. You force a smile, hoping to mask the growing frustration and fear. As you weave through the steps, your feet move, but your mind is still stuck on the failed jump. You feel disconnected from the music, from the ice, from the performance that’s slipping through your fingers.

You approach the triple Lutz—one of the most challenging elements in your routine. You breathe deeply, telling yourself you can still save this, but the seed of doubt has taken root. You accelerate into the jump, feeling the power build in your legs, and then you launch into the air. This time, you feel the rotation, the speed, the familiar rush of adrenaline, but it’s too fast, too uncontrolled. When you come down, you feel your left skate catch, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward. You barely manage to stay upright, catching yourself with a hand on the ice.

The gasp from the crowd feels like a punch to the gut.

I can’t believe I just did that. This is a disaster.

You’re only halfway through the program, but every second feels like an eternity. Each movement feels heavier, each step more labored. Your body moves through the motions, but your mind is stuck on replaying your mistakes. The music swells, urging you to keep going, but all you can think about is how much you’ve already ruined.

The spins that follow are supposed to be your strength, your signature—a moment when you can let go and show your artistry. But you’re too distracted, your mind racing with self-doubt. You rush into the first spin, and it feels off—your center of gravity isn’t where it should be. You struggle to maintain speed, and by the time you come out of it, your legs feel shaky. You curse yourself under your breath, frustration bubbling up. You’ve never felt this out of control in a competition before.

You’ve blown it. Everyone’s watching you fall apart.

The final jump, a double Axel, should be simple compared to the others, but the fear of messing up again overwhelms you. You take off, and for a second, you think it might be fine—until you under-rotate. The landing feels heavy, and you stumble. This time, you can’t save it. You fall, hitting the ice with a thud, the sound echoing in the silent arena.

You want to stay down, to disappear, to let the ice swallow you whole. But the music pulls you back up, and you force yourself to your feet, biting back the tears threatening to spill. Your legs feel like lead as you move through the final moments of the routine, each movement mechanical and empty.

As the music fades and you hold your ending pose, all you can think about is the silence. It’s deafening. The applause comes a few seconds later, polite but subdued, and it feels like salt in the wound. You know what the crowd saw. You know what you felt. It wasn’t the performance you’d spent years dreaming of; it was the kind that haunts you.

You skate off the ice, head down, feeling the heat of embarrassment burn through you. Your coach approaches, a hand on your shoulder, whispering words of encouragement you can barely hear over the sound of your own self-recrimination.

You blew it. You had one chance, and you blew it.

In the kiss-and-cry area, the scores flash on the screen, but you don’t need to see them to know what they’ll be—low, lower than you’ve ever had in an international competition. You feel tears prick at your eyes, and you clench your fists, willing yourself not to cry in front of the cameras.

When you finally look up, you see Sidney standing near the boards, watching. His face is unreadable, but you know he saw everything. The thought makes your stomach twist. You wanted him to see you at your best, to show him the skater you’ve worked so hard to become. But instead, he saw you at your worst.

You tear your eyes eyes away, feeling your throat forming that familiar lump. “God fucking damn it,” you mumble as you shut your eyes. You rush off to the bathroom, shutting it behind you swiftly.

It feels like your world was upside down.

You can't control the sobs that come next as you slid down the door, as your legs give out beneath you. The sobs rip through you, harsh and unrelenting, and you press a hand over your mouth, desperate to stifle the sound. The last thing you need is for anyone else to hear you breaking down. But the tears keep coming, hot and uncontrollable, and your chest tightens with the weight of your own disappointment.

You curl up on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to your chest, feeling the ache spread through your entire body. Every mistake from the routine replays in your mind on an endless loop—the missed jumps, the stumble, the fall. Each one feels like a punch, and you can’t help but berate yourself for every single one.

Why couldn’t you get it right? Why did you choke?

You lean your head back against the door, the cool wood grounding you for a moment. But then the wave hits again. You’ve worked for years—years—for this moment, and you blew it in front of everyone. All those hours of practice, all those sacrifices, and for what? For a performance that feels like it’s ruined everything you’ve worked so hard for.

The tears blur your vision, and you rub at your eyes, only to feel the sting of makeup smearing across your cheeks. It’s a mess—everything feels like a mess. You dig your fingers into your hair, pulling slightly as if the pain might drown out the thoughts that won’t stop tormenting you.

You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to prove you belonged here.

The worst part is knowing that Sidney saw it all. You tried so hard to ignore the tension, to push past the uncertainty of what’s between you two. But in that moment on the ice, with the lights bright and the stakes high, all you could think about was wanting to impress him, to show him the best version of yourself. And now he’s seen you fail, seen you fall apart, and you can’t bear the thought of what he must think.

The thought twists in your gut, making the sobs come harder. You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. You feel like a little kid again, like all the progress you’ve made, all the strength you’ve built up, has crumbled in an instant.

After a few minutes, the sobs finally start to subside, leaving you feeling drained and empty. You breathe in, ragged and shallow, trying to calm the storm inside your head. But the silence only makes the thoughts louder. You can still hear the crowd’s disappointed murmur, see the faces of the judges as they wrote down your scores.

You’re not sure how long you stay there, slumped against the door, before the sound of footsteps approaching makes you freeze. You quickly wipe at your face, scrubbing away the tears and trying to pull yourself together. The last thing you need is for anyone to find you like this, crumpled up and broken.

There’s a knock on the door, soft at first, and you hold your breath, hoping whoever it is will go away. But then the knock comes again, a little more insistent.

“Hey,” a voice says quietly, and your heart sinks. You’d recognize that voice anywhere—Sidney.

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breath, but it’s no use. You know you can’t face him like this, not when you feel so raw and exposed. “Go away, Sid,” you manage to choke out, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

“Please, just… let me in.” His voice is gentle, and that makes it worse. You don’t want his pity, don’t want to be reminded of how badly you’ve messed up in front of him.

You wipe at your face again, even though you know you look like a mess. “I don’t want to talk right now,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word. You feel pathetic, and all you want to do is disappear.

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you think he might leave. But then he speaks again, softer this time. “It’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to hide.”

The words are kind, and they cut through you. You hate that he knows, that he sees you like this. You hate that part of you wants to open the door, to let him in and just collapse into his arms. But you can’t. You can’t let him see how much you’re falling apart.

“I’m fine,” you lie, voice cracking again. “Just… go.”

But he doesn’t move. “Look, I know you’re upset. I saw what happened out there, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re still one of the best skaters I’ve ever seen.”

You press your lips together, shaking your head even though he can’t see. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sid.”

There’s another silence, and then, softer still, “I just want to be here for you.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tighten. You want to believe him, want to open the door and let yourself lean on someone for once. But the fear is too strong—the fear of being seen, of being judged, of letting someone close enough to hurt you.

“I can’t do this right now,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face again.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and you can hear the hurt in his voice. “But if you need me, I’m here.”

You don’t respond, biting down on your lip as the tears fall harder. You wait until his footsteps fade away, leaving you alone in the silence once more. Then, finally, you let out a sob, sinking back against the door, feeling the weight of everything crash down on you again.

───

The hotel room feels suffocating, the walls closing in as you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring blankly at the TV screen. The Olympics news channel is on, and you can’t help but watch, even though every fiber of your being screams to turn it off. They’re showing highlights of the day’s performances, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they replay yours.

The phone is pressed to your ear, and your coach’s voice crackles through the line, rough and familiar. He’s the one who’s seen you at your best and your worst, the one who’s pushed you to reach your full potential. But tonight, his words sting more than they usually do.

“You know, that wasn’t the skater I’ve been training for the past ten years,” he says, his voice firm, the edge of disappointment unmistakable. “What happened out there? You choked, plain and simple.”

You swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. You know he’s trying to push you, trying to get a reaction—he always thinks tough love will get you back on track. But right now, every word feels like another weight pressing down on your already heavy chest. “I know, okay? I messed up,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but you hear the waver at the end.

He sighs, and you can picture him running a hand over his face. “Messing up is one thing, but letting it get to you out there? That’s not you. You looked like a deer in headlights after that first fall. Where’s your fight? Where’s the girl who pushes through, no matter what?”

The criticism feels like salt in an open wound, and you bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry again. You’ve already spent most of the evening crying in the bathroom, and you refuse to do it now, not when he’s on the other end of the line. “I tried, but—” you start, but he cuts you off.

���But nothing,” he snaps. “Trying isn’t good enough at this level. You either do it, or you don’t. And today, you didn’t.”

You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, taking a deep breath as you try to keep your emotions in check. You know he’s right—of course, he’s right. This isn’t the first time he’s laid it out like this, and usually, it works. Usually, it fires you up, makes you want to prove him wrong, to prove to yourself that you’re capable of more. But tonight, all it does is make you feel small.

“I get it,” you say quietly, struggling to keep your voice even. “I let everyone down.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then his tone softens, just a little. “It’s not about letting anyone down. It’s about you. You know what you’re capable of, and today, that wasn’t it. You’re better than this.”

You glance up at the TV, and your stomach drops. They’re showing footage of your routine, the slow-motion replay of your first stumble, the way you clutched your ankle like it was the end of the world. The announcers are discussing it with hushed tones, one of them saying, “A disappointing performance from someone who’s been touted as a medal contender. You can see the hesitation after that initial fall—she never fully recovered.”

It feels like someone’s twisting a knife in your gut, and you have to look away, turning your attention to the wall instead. “They’re showing it on the news,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re saying I looked scared.”

“Well, they’re not wrong,” your coach says, and the bluntness hits you like a slap. “You did look scared. You were scared.”

You clench your jaw, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over again. “I know that,” you snap, more harshly than you intended. “I know I messed up, and I don’t need you or the whole world reminding me.”

There’s a long silence on the other end, and for a moment, you worry he’s going to hang up. But then he sighs, and you hear the weariness in his voice. “Look, I’m not saying this to make you feel worse. I’m saying it because you’ve got two options now: you let this break you, or you use it. You’ve got another routine, and if you want any shot at the podium, you’ve got to be perfect.”

The words hang in the air between you, and you stare down at your lap, the weight of everything crushing you. “I don’t know if I can,” you admit, the vulnerability slipping out before you can stop it. “I feel like… I don’t know, like I’ve lost it.”

“You haven’t lost anything,” he says, his voice sharp again, like he’s trying to pull you back from the edge. “One bad routine doesn’t erase everything you’ve worked for. You’ve been down before, and you’ve come back stronger every time. This is no different.”

The TV cuts to the end of your routine, the moment where you bowed your head and skated off the ice, and the announcers are speculating about whether the pressure of the Olympics got to you. You grit your teeth, feeling the shame creeping back in.

“I just— I don’t know how to fix it,” you say, your voice cracking. “I felt like everything was slipping away out there, like no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it right.”

“That’s your head talking,” he replies. “You need to get out of your own way. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about finding that zone where you stop thinking and just skate. You know how to do that. You’ve done it a thousand times.”

You want to believe him, but the doubt clings to you like a shadow. “What if I can’t? What if I mess up again?”

“Then you get up again,” he says simply. “That’s the only way forward.”

You lean back against the pillows, closing your eyes and trying to steady your breath. You know he’s right, deep down. But right now, it feels impossible to shake the disappointment and the fear. “Okay,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel okay. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” he says, and for a moment, his tone is almost gentle. “Get some rest tonight, clear your head. Tomorrow’s another day.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah. Thanks, coach.”

“Hang in there, kid,” he says before hanging up.

You set the phone down on the bed, feeling the quiet of the room settle around you. The screen still shows highlights of the other skaters, and you watch as they soar effortlessly through their routines, their movements flawless, their expressions confident. You envy them—the way they make it look so easy, so natural.

But you know it isn’t. You know the hours, the pain, the sacrifices that go into making it look that way. You’ve lived it, day in and day out. And as much as you want to curl up and shut the world out, there’s a part of you that refuses to give up. A part that knows you have another chance, another routine.

The channel shifts from figure skating highlights to coverage of the hockey events. You immediately recognize the familiar red and white jerseys of Team Canada as the highlights reel begins, showing clips of their opening game. There’s Sidney, in perfect form, weaving around defenders with effortless grace. The crowd roars as he shoots and scores, the puck finding the back of the net like it was meant to be there all along.

The announcers are gushing, their voices rising with excitement. “And there’s Crosby with yet another goal—what an incredible start for Team Canada. Their chemistry on the ice is flawless, and they’re looking unstoppable.”

The camera zooms in on Sidney’s face, beaming as he’s mobbed by his teammates. There’s that calm, confident look you’ve seen so many times before, the look of someone who’s exactly where they belong, doing exactly what they were meant to do. The arena explodes in cheers, and you can almost feel the energy from the screen, the way the city has rallied behind their hockey hero.

You grit your teeth, feeling your hands ball into fists on your lap. Of course, he’s perfect. Of course, everything falls into place for him. While you’re stuck in this hotel room, replaying every mistake you made, Sidney’s out there doing what he always does—winning. Being flawless. Making it look easy.

The replay shifts to another play, this one showing Sidney setting up a teammate for a goal with a precise, lightning-fast pass. The announcers’ voices swell again. “Crosby’s vision is unmatched—he makes it look effortless. The chemistry and connection he has with his teammates are just on another level.”

You feel the knot in your stomach twist tighter. It’s not that you begrudge him his success; he’s worked hard for it, and you know how much pressure he’s under. But right now, it’s like every moment of his triumph is rubbing salt in your wounds. It feels personal, like the universe is reminding you of how far you’ve fallen, how badly you’ve failed.

And the worst part is, you can’t get his face out of your head. The way he looked at you after your routine—his expression soft, the same reassuring look he’s always given you when things went wrong. At the time, it felt comforting, like he was there for you when you needed someone the most. But now, seeing him bask in the glory of his victory while you’re drowning in your own defeat, it only makes the ache worse.

The camera zooms in again, catching Sidney in a post-game interview. He’s all smiles, his helmet still perched on his head, hair damp with sweat but eyes bright and full of that competitive fire you’ve always admired. “It’s great to start the tournament off strong,” he says, his voice full of confidence. “The guys have been working hard, and it’s awesome to see it pay off on the ice. We’re just taking it one game at a time, but we’re feeling good.”

The reporters laugh, clearly enamored with him, and you can’t help but scowl. It’s so easy for him to stand there and say that, to talk about feeling good when everything is going right. When he hasn’t been the one to crash and burn on the world’s biggest stage.

Your fingers dig into the comforter as the segment continues, showing highlights from the locker room—Sidney laughing with his teammates, high-fiving, all smiles and celebration. They look relaxed, like they’re already sure of their place in the finals. And why wouldn’t they be? They’ve got Sidney Crosby, and when you have someone like him, everything else falls into place.

You mute the TV, unable to watch anymore. The image lingers, though, and you can feel the anger building in your chest, tightening like a vice. It’s not fair. You’ve worked just as hard as he has, put in the same hours, made the same sacrifices. And yet, here you are, hiding in a hotel room, while he gets to be the golden boy, the hero.

You know you’re being unfair. Sidney was nothing but kind to you earlier. But you can’t help it—the jealousy and frustration bubble up, making it impossible to think straight. You want to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the injustice of it all.

Instead, you bury your face in your hands, trying to take deep breaths, but all you feel is the heat of your tears building again. “Why can’t I just be better?” you whisper to the empty room, the words cracking in your throat. “Why can’t I be like him?”

You know there’s no answer, and that’s the hardest part. You know that no amount of hard work or preparation can guarantee perfection. You’ve been told your whole life that you have to fight for what you want, that success doesn’t come without failure. But in this moment, it all feels so hopeless, like you’re swimming against an unstoppable current and no matter how hard you kick, you’re just sinking deeper.

You hear your phone buzz on the nightstand, and you almost ignore it, but a part of you hopes it might be a message from home—maybe your mom or your sister, someone who’ll tell you that it’s okay, that one bad skate doesn’t define you.

But when you check, it’s a notification from one of those sports apps, and your heart sinks again as you read the headline: Sidney Crosby and Team Canada Dominate in Opening Game. It’s everywhere, inescapable. Another reminder of how easily the world seems to fall in love with him, and how quickly they move on from the skaters who stumble.

You drop the phone back on the bed, shoving it away as you curl up against the pillows. You shut your eyes, trying to block out the noise, the pressure, the image of Sidney’s perfect smile and the sound of the crowd chanting his name. But it doesn’t help.

No matter what you do, it feels like you’re stuck in a loop, replaying your mistakes and wondering why, for once, you couldn’t have been the one with the perfect routine, the one who had everything fall into place.

Then, that familiar mantra repeats in your mind. I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

“Damn right,” you whisper to yourself as you lay back in the hotel bed.

───

The alarm blares, pulling you out of a restless sleep. You groggily reach over and shut it off, squinting at the clock—4:00 a.m. The room is dark, and the cold air bites at your skin as you push yourself out of bed. You’ve always been an early riser, but today is different. It’s not just about getting ahead of the competition; it’s about making up for yesterday, about proving to yourself that you can still pull it together.

You slip into your warm-up clothes, tying your hair back tightly, and grab your skates and jacket. You move quietly through the hallways of the hotel, the only sound being the soft hum of the lights and the shuffle of your footsteps against the carpet. The entire place feels eerily quiet, as if the world hasn’t woken up yet. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what you need—a chance to reset, to work without anyone watching or judging.

When you arrive at the rink, the lights are dim, and the ice is a blank canvas, untouched. You breathe in deeply, letting the chill fill your lungs, feeling the weight of your skates as you lace them up methodically. The rink is your sanctuary, your space to figure things out. Today, it feels even more important to reclaim it. You stand and step onto the ice, the familiar glide grounding you, and take a deep breath before you start.

You begin your warm-up routine—edges, spins, quick footwork. The movements feel stiff at first, but you push through, repeating them until your body remembers how it’s supposed to move. Every turn is sharper, every spin faster than the last. You skate hard, pushing your muscles to the limit, sweat starting to bead on your forehead despite the cold.

As you go through your jumps, you land a clean triple toe loop, and for a moment, it feels like progress. But then you try again, and your skate catches the ice wrong, sending you stumbling. You curse under your breath and reset, gritting your teeth as you go for it again. Over and over, you repeat the jump, and each time, it feels like it’s getting worse.

Your frustration builds, and before you know it, you’re skating full speed into your program. You launch into the combination sequence that tripped you up yesterday, determination burning in your veins. It’s messy—your timing’s off, your landings shaky—but you keep going, pretending that if you just push hard enough, you can force it to be perfect.

You don’t even realize how hard you’re pushing yourself until you skid to a stop, panting, your legs burning. The sound of your ragged breaths echoes in the empty rink, and you slam your hands on your thighs, hunching over. “What’s wrong with me?” you whisper to yourself, your voice echoing in the silence.

Just as you’re about to push off for another round, you hear a voice that makes you freeze. “Up early, huh?”

You whip around, and there he is—Sidney Crosby, leaning against the boards, still in his sweats. His hair is messy, and there’s a slight grin on his face like he knows he’s interrupting something private. You feel your stomach drop, the annoyance already bubbling up. Of all the people to show up at this hour.

“Yeah, well, some of us need the extra practice,” you snap, more harshly than you mean to. The last thing you want is to let him see how much this is getting to you, how much yesterday is still hanging over your head.

Sidney raises an eyebrow, his expression still annoyingly calm. “I figured as much,” he says, his voice annoyingly relaxed. “Saw the lights on and thought I’d come check it out.”

You glare at him, your grip tightening on the edge of the rink. “Well, you’ve checked it out. Congratulations. You can leave now.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he pushes off the boards and steps closer, resting his arms casually. “You know, beating yourself up like this isn’t going to help.”

“Oh, thanks for the tip, Coach.” You can’t help the sarcasm that drips from your words, your fists clenching at your sides. “I’m sure you’ve had so many moments where you just sucked and needed to figure out how to get it back together.”

He tilts his head, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes, but it only makes your annoyance grow. “Actually, yeah,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’ve had plenty of bad games. Plenty of times where I felt like I was completely off. It happens to everyone.”

You roll your eyes, looking away. “Not like this. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like everything you’ve worked for is slipping through your fingers.”

“Maybe not exactly like this,” he admits, and for a moment, you hear genuine understanding in his voice. “But I get it. The pressure, the expectations—everyone watching, waiting for you to mess up or be perfect. It’s not easy.”

You want to tell him to stop, that his sympathy isn’t what you need right now. But the more he talks, the more it feels like he’s seeing right through you, and that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sidney. I just need to work.”

“Yeah? And how’s that going?” he challenges, gesturing to the rink. “You think pushing yourself like this is going to fix everything?”

“I don’t know,” you snap. “But what else am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the highlights of you and your perfect team?”

His face darkens, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not here to rub anything in. I just—I saw you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Well, I’m not,” you admit, the words coming out harsher than you intend. “I’m not okay, and I don’t need you pretending to care. I just—” You cut yourself off, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak.

He looks at you for a long moment, the frustration still in his eyes but mixed with something else—maybe concern, maybe understanding. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he says quietly. “You’re not the only one who struggles.”

But you don’t want to hear it. Not from him. Not right now. “Just leave me alone, Sidney. Please.”

For a moment, it looks like he might argue, but then he nods, the disappointment clear on his face. “Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

He turns and walks away, and you watch as he disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone in the cold, empty rink. The silence feels heavier now, and the frustration sits like a weight in your chest. You push off again, skating into another spin, determined to work through it, but all you can think about is the look in Sidney’s eyes and the feeling that, for once, maybe you’ve pushed the wrong person away.

───

The next day, you walk into the rink with a heavy sense of dread. The weight of your previous performances and the mounting pressure of the competition is starting to feel like an unbearable burden. You arrive a bit later than usual, joining your teammates as they warm up. The mood feels different today—everyone is on edge, focused. No one says much; they just nod in acknowledgment as you step onto the ice.

You take a deep breath, the familiar chill of the rink grounding you as you skate a few laps to loosen up. The routine you’ve been working on still feels rough around the edges, and the more you practice it, the more you feel the lingering frustration. You can’t afford to fall apart again, not this close to competition.

As you glide toward the boards, planning to get some advice from your team’s coach, you notice a familiar figure standing there, arms crossed and a stern expression on his face. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then he steps forward, and you recognize the familiar build and the gray streaks in his hair.

“Coach?” you blurt out, stopping in your tracks. The surprise in your voice is evident, and your teammates glance over, curious.

He nods, his eyes sharp as ever. “Heard you were having some trouble,” he says, not wasting a second. “Figured I’d come see it for myself.”

You feel a mix of relief and irritation. Relief because there’s no one who knows your skating as well as he does. Irritation because, of all times, why now? “I didn’t ask you to come,” you say, trying to sound tough, but it comes out weaker than you want.

“I know you didn’t.” He steps onto the ice, his skates making that satisfying scratch against the surface. “But you clearly need it.” He gestures for you to come over, and despite everything, you find yourself obeying, gliding toward him like you’re fifteen again and still trying to impress him.

“You’re skating like you’ve got bricks tied to your feet,” he says bluntly, and you bristle. “I watched the tape, and honestly, it’s like you’re holding back. Why?”

“I’m not holding back,” you argue, feeling the defensive flare rise in your chest. “I just—” You pause, swallowing hard. “It’s the pressure. Everything feels off.”

He gives you a knowing look, one that makes you feel seen and called out all at once. “Pressure isn’t new for you, kid. You’ve handled it before. The only difference now is you’re letting it get in your head.”

You want to argue, to tell him that it’s not that simple, that the stakes are higher now, that you feel like the world is watching your every move. But then, as he stands there waiting, you realize he already knows all of that. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am in my head,” you admit.

He nods, satisfied with your honesty. “Good. Now let’s get you out of it.” He claps his hands together. “Start from the top. Show me the routine.”

You go through the motions, running through your routine as he watches with that critical eye he’s always had. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you move through the steps, and you try to shut out the noise in your head, focusing on the feel of the ice beneath your blades, the muscle memory kicking in as you twist into the jumps and glide into the spins.

But when you finish, you can already tell it wasn’t your best. You land off balance, your arms not quite in the right position, and the frustration hits you like a wave. “I can’t—” you start, but Ramirez cuts you off.

“Stop,” he says, holding up a hand. “You’re hesitating. Every time you go for a jump, you’re thinking too hard about sticking the landing. You can’t think. You just have to trust your training.”

He skates up to you, his eyes meeting yours. “We’re going to break it down. One section at a time. And when you hit that jump, you commit to it like it’s the last thing you’re ever going to do.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. It’s been so long since you’ve had someone push you like this, and even though it’s tough love, there’s something comforting about it. You start again, working through the steps slowly. He stops you, corrects your positioning, and has you repeat until it feels right. Then you move to the next part, and the next, until you’re sweating and your legs are burning from the repetition.

“Now, the jump,” he instructs, standing back a few feet. “No hesitation.”

You push off, feeling the adrenaline rush through your veins as you pick up speed. This time, when you go for the triple toe loop, you don’t think about the landing—you just let your body move. And for the first time, it feels right. You nail the landing, your arms pulling into the perfect position as you finish the rotation.

“That’s it!” Coach shouts, and you feel a surge of triumph. “That’s the skater I know.”

You repeat the jump a few more times, and each time it feels smoother, more controlled. The confidence builds, and by the time you finish, you’re panting but smiling for the first time in days.

Coach skates over, nodding in approval. “There you go. You’ve still got it. Just had to get out of your own way.”

You nod, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. “Thanks, Coach,” you say, and you mean it.

He grins, clapping you on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Just go out there and show them what you’re made of. You know you’re better than what you showed the other day.”

As he leaves, you stand in the center of the ice, feeling the energy buzzing in your limbs. You go through your routine again, and this time, everything clicks. It feels natural, like you’re finally skating the way you know you can. The nerves are still there, but they’re manageable, and you feel like you’re reclaiming your rhythm.

Maybe you’re not back completely, but for the first time in days, you feel like you’re heading in the right direction. And that, more than anything, gives you hope.

───

The sun barely peeks through the thin curtains of your hotel room when your alarm breaks the quiet, a sharp reminder of the day that lies ahead. Today is the day, the one you've trained for endlessly. Months of repetition, muscle memory, and strategy all leading to this. You’ve imagined it countless times in your head, playing out the routine step-by-step in your mind, visualizing every move, every spin, every landing. Today, none of that changes—except the stakes.

You sit up in bed, the cool air of the room biting against your skin as you throw the blankets aside. The nerves should be overwhelming, but instead, a sense of clarity washes over you. Today, you’re ready. This is your stage, your time to shine, and no one can take that from you.

After getting dressed in your warm-up gear, you take a moment to glance at yourself in the mirror. There's something different about you today—your eyes are sharp, focused, determined. You’ve been through the pressures before, the tightrope walk between fear and success, but today, something just feels right. It has to be.

By the time you make it to the rink, the buzz of competition fills the air. The sound of skates slicing through the ice, the murmurs of coaches, and the faint cheers of early spectators start to build the intensity in your chest. But you push it aside. You’ve been in big competitions before; this is no different. It’s just another routine. You’ll hit it like you always do.

As you’re stretching in the corner, lacing up your skates, a familiar voice calls out from behind you.

“Looking sharp.”

You glance over your shoulder, finding Sidney standing there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He always knows when you need a bit of reassurance. His presence is steadying, calming. You offer a small smile in return.

“Of course,” you reply, your voice low and even. “I’m ready for this.”

Sidney steps closer, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze. “You’ve got this. Don’t let anyone get into your head today, okay?”

You nod, feeling the confidence surge in your veins. “I won’t.”

But as you finish tying your laces and stand up, something—someone—catches your attention.

A skater from Russia, one of the top competitors, is gliding effortlessly across the ice, her movements so fluid and smooth they almost mock gravity. You've seen her before, heard the whispers about how she's one of the favorites. You wouldn't mind, except she locks eyes with you as she spins to a stop, her lips curling into a smirk that drips with arrogance.

“Aw, look who’s here,” she says, her accent heavy as she steps off the ice, making her way toward you. “I thought you’d be smarter than to show up here. You must love embarrassing yourself on the world stage.”

Your heart skips a beat as you register her words, your jaw clenching. For a second, it’s like a hot flame flickers in your chest, spreading through your veins. You know better than to engage—this is a mental game, and she’s trying to get into your head, to throw you off. But your temper simmers beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over.

You take a step forward, your fists balling at your sides as the blood rushes to your face. You're ready to fire something back, something sharp enough to cut through her smugness. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and the ice beneath your feet feels like it's shifting, unsteady, as your emotions rise.

“Excuse me?” you snap, your voice low and dangerous, but before you can take another step, a firm hand grips your arm.

It’s Sidney. He pulls you back, his expression calm but stern, as if he’s reading every thought running through your mind. “Let it go,” he mutters quietly, his voice steady, almost like a tether anchoring you to the moment.

You hesitate, your body still tense, the adrenaline begging for release. But when you meet his eyes, the storm in your chest calms just enough to bring you back to your senses. Sidney’s grip on your arm doesn’t loosen until you take a slow breath.

“She’s not worth it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze flicking over to the other skater who watches with amusement, a mock pout on her lips. He’s right. She’s baiting you. And as much as you want to prove a point, this isn’t the time. Not now.

You let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to relax. “Fine,” you say, your voice cold as ice, but you turn away from the smirking skater, following Sidney’s lead.

As you walk toward the locker room, the adrenaline still courses through your veins, but Sidney's presence beside you keeps you grounded. His hand never leaves your arm until you’re far from the other skater’s gaze, and only then does he finally let go.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice softer now, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lingering anger.

You nod, but the fire in your chest hasn’t fully burned out. “I almost lost it back there.”

“I know.” Sidney sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She’s just trying to get in your head. Don’t give her that power.”

You nod again, taking in a deep breath and forcing your mind to focus. Sidney’s right, and you know it. You can’t let anyone throw you off your game today, especially not someone who’s already threatened by you. She’s scared—that’s why she said what she did. You can sense it now.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, finally feeling the confidence return. “Thanks for stopping me.”

Sidney smiles softly, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Anytime. Now go out there and show them why you belong here.”

You feel the weight lift slightly from your shoulders, and as you head back toward the rink, you feel that calm determination return. The fire’s still there, but this time, it’s focused. You’re ready to skate, and nothing is going to stop you.

Not her. Not anyone.

And finally, the time has come.

You stand in the tunnel just before stepping onto the ice, your heart pounding steadily in your chest. Everything about the rink feels different now—the lights seem brighter, the air colder, the buzz of the crowd more intense. You close your eyes, centering yourself, taking in the familiar sounds of blades cutting into the ice and the faint murmur of the audience above.

This is it. This is your moment.

Your name is called, and a roar from the crowd erupts in response. You take a deep breath, feeling the chill of the ice underneath your skates as you glide onto the rink, your body moving with precision. Every inch of you is alive with purpose. It’s as if the weight of months of preparation, of early mornings and late nights, presses down on your shoulders. But you’re not buckling under it. You’re thriving. You can feel the tension in your muscles, that sharp edge of nervous energy, but you channel it into determination.

Before you take your starting position, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the rink, landing on her. The skater from Russia, poised against the barrier with a smug expression painted across her face, her arms crossed as she watches you. She’s one of the best—hell, you know that. But it’s the way she’s staring at you, like she’s already counted you out, that makes something snap inside you.

You meet her eyes, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. There’s a flicker of judgment there, a cruel glint in her eyes that says she doesn’t believe in you. But instead of breaking you, it ignites something fierce in your chest. The fire from earlier flares up, but this time, it’s controlled, burning with a steady, focused heat. If she thinks you're going to falter under her scrutiny, she’s dead wrong.

You shift your focus back to the ice, feeling your breathing steady. You let her condescending expression fuel you. Today, you’ll give her a performance so perfect, she’ll have no choice but to remember your name.

As the opening notes of your music fill the arena, you take off, your blades biting into the ice as you begin your routine. The crowd falls silent, all eyes on you. Every step, every turn, feels deliberate. It’s not just muscle memory—it’s instinct now. Your body knows this choreography so well it feels like second nature, and you trust it. You trust yourself.

The first jump comes quickly—a triple lutz, one of the hardest in your routine. You feel the familiar rush of adrenaline as you gather speed, launching yourself into the air. For a brief second, you feel weightless, suspended in time as your body rotates. Then, the satisfying click of your blades hitting the ice. Perfect. The crowd erupts in applause, but you barely hear it. You're already moving on, focusing on what comes next.

Your mind is sharp, clear, hyper-focused on the moment. You move through your footwork sequence with precision, your blades carving intricate patterns into the ice as you twist and turn, your arms fluid and graceful. Every muscle in your body works in perfect synchronization, and for once, the nerves don’t feel like a burden—they feel like power, like fuel that’s pushing you faster, sharper.

As you glide into your next combination jump, a triple toe loop-double axel, you catch a glimpse of her again—the Russian skater, still watching you, her expression unreadable now. You wonder if she’s realizing that you’re not the pushover she thought you were. The thought brings a smug satisfaction to your lips as you execute the combination flawlessly, the landings soft and controlled.

You're in the zone now, riding the high of perfecting every element, your body responding to every beat of the music, every shift in the ice beneath your skates. There’s nothing but you and the performance, the world beyond the rink fading away.

As the music swells to its climax, you launch into your final spin. You feel the wind rush past your face as you whip through the rotations, faster and faster, your arms outstretched in perfect balance. The crowd is on its feet, the roar of applause echoing in your ears, but you don’t stop until the very last note. You strike your final pose, your chest heaving, every nerve in your body alive with the energy of the moment.

For a beat, there’s silence. Then, the arena explodes into cheers, a standing ovation. You breathe hard, your chest rising and falling as you take it all in, a rush of pride swelling in your chest. You did it. You nailed it. Every move, every jump, every spin was flawless, and you know it.

As you glide off the ice, that familiar sense of calm washes over you, but there’s something else too—a spark of mischief. You pass by her—the Russian skater—standing near the boards, her gaze still locked on you. You can see the flicker of something behind her eyes now. Is it irritation? Jealousy? You don’t care. You savor the moment, letting it fuel your next move.

With a cheeky grin, you blow her a kiss as you skate past, your lips curling in satisfaction. It’s not subtle, and you make sure it’s clear who it’s for. The boldness of the gesture sends a jolt of thrill through you. It’s petty, it’s catty, but damn, it feels good. You don’t even have to look to know the smugness has drained from her face.

By the time you reach the kiss-and-cry area, Sidney is there, waiting, his grin wide and proud. “That was incredible,” he says, his voice low with admiration as you slip off your skates.

“I know,” you reply, your breath still catching up to the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You can’t help but throw another glance toward the Russian skater, who’s still staring after you, no longer smirking.

Sidney chuckles when he catches your look. “Did you really blow her a kiss?”

“Of course,” you say with a laugh, unbothered. “I mean, someone had to put her in her place.”

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

Sidney leans closer, his arm resting casually on the back of your seat, his familiar presence comforting. “You were incredible out there,” he repeats, his eyes bright with pride. His grin, that cocky confidence that’s so quintessentially him, makes you feel a surge of warmth. There’s something grounding about having him here with you, someone who understands what it means to perform under pressure, to feel the weight of expectations, and to still rise above it.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice breathless but light, and you meet his gaze, feeling a smile tug at your lips. “I felt it. Everything just… clicked.”

Sidney nods, his hand gently squeezing your shoulder. “It showed. That last jump? Nailed it. And that spin? Pure magic.” His grin widens. “And the kiss at the end? Bold move. But hey, if anyone deserves to be a little petty, it’s you after that performance.”

You laugh, the tension from the performance finally starting to melt away. “You know, it wasn’t planned, but she just…” You glance back toward the other skater, who’s now talking to her coach with a tight expression on her face. The same smugness she wore earlier has evaporated. “…she pissed me off,” you finish, shaking your head. “I wasn’t gonna let her get in my head.”

Sidney gives you a knowing look, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s the spirit. You didn’t just show her up—you owned the ice. She’ll be thinking about that kiss for a long time.”

You lean back in your seat, still riding the high of the moment. The judges are deliberating now, your scores coming up on the board any minute, but you’re not stressed about it. Not like you usually are. You already know you gave the performance of a lifetime, and no number they flash on the screen will take that away from you.

Still, as the numbers begin to appear, you hold your breath, your fingers nervously drumming on the armrest. Sidney glances up at the screen, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Here we go,” he murmurs.

The scores start rolling in—technical, artistic, execution—and they’re good. Really good. The kind of scores that make your heart skip a beat, that tell you everything you need to know.

You’ve done it. You’ve not only secured a personal best, but you’ve set yourself up as a true contender for the top spot.

The arena erupts in applause once more as your final score flashes on the screen, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, a mix of relief and joy. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible, the weight of all your hard work crashing down on you. You feel Sidney’s hand slip into yours, a squeeze of congratulations, and you turn to him with a beaming smile.

“See?” he says, his voice thick with pride. “Told you.”

You shake your head in disbelief, glancing back at the ice, as if you need to see it again to believe it. “I knew I could do it, but… seeing it up there, hearing them cheer like that…” You trail off, emotions swirling in your chest.

Sidney doesn’t let you stay in that awe-struck moment for too long, though. He smirks and nudges your shoulder playfully. “So, what’s next? Gonna blow more kisses at the competition?”

You roll your eyes, but the grin stays plastered on your face. “Maybe I’ll save that for when I win gold.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll have to up your game for that.”

“You think?” you tease, arching a brow.

He leans in, his voice low and teasing, “Maybe save a kiss for me when you do.”

His words send a warm flush up your neck, but you manage to keep your composure, glancing sideways at him. “Oh, you think you deserve one, huh?”

Sidney flashes you a grin, leaning back with that easy confidence. “If anyone’s getting a victory kiss, it should be me. I did keep you from tearing someone’s head off this morning.”

You laugh, unable to argue with him on that one. “You’ve got a point.”

Before you can say more, your coach approaches, eyes gleaming with pride, and you’re pulled into a round of congratulations. The victory, the adrenaline, the applause—it’s all so surreal. You’ve done it, and as you sit there, surrounded by your team, Sidney’s presence grounding you amidst the whirlwind of excitement, you realize just how far you’ve come.

But there’s something else. Something that lingers in your chest, stronger now than it’s ever been. This wasn’t just about proving yourself to the judges or the audience or that snide Russian skater who thought she could rattle you. No, this was about you. About finding the strength within yourself to push through, to rise above the doubts, the pressure, and the competition.

As the celebration continues around you, you find Sidney’s gaze once more. There’s a look in his eyes—something deeper, something that tells you he’s proud of more than just your performance. He’s proud of you.

And in that moment, with the weight of your accomplishment settling in, you know that this is only the beginning. There’s more to come—more competitions, more challenges—but right now, you’re ready for all of it.

You stand, pulling Sidney up with you, and before the moment can pass, you do something bold, something just for you. You lean in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, the kind of kiss that says more than words ever could.

Sidney’s eyes widen in surprise, but his smile is immediate, warm. “Told you I’d get one,” he teases, though there’s a touch of tenderness in his tone.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as the two of you walk away from the rink, the roar of the crowd still echoing in the background, you know deep down—this is only the beginning of something even bigger.

───

The energy in the locker room is a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Your teammates are sprawled out on benches, some still cooling down from their routines, while others are glued to their phones, checking social media and results. You’re still riding the high from your performance, your mind replaying every step, every leap, and that perfect kiss at the end—both of them, in fact.

"Hey, turn that up!" someone yells from the other side of the room.

The television, mounted high on the wall, is blaring Olympic coverage, and everyone’s heads swivel toward it. You don’t pay much attention at first, too busy lacing up your shoes and chugging water, but the buzz of your name from the TV catches your attention.

"And in a stunning turn of events, it seems like all eyes are on Y/N L/N today!" the announcer’s voice booms, and your head snaps up.

“Wait, is that about—”

“Yup,” your teammate grins, elbowing you in the ribs. "They’re talking about you."

The screen shows a slow-motion replay of your final move on the ice, your body twisted into that perfect final pose, followed by the triumphant blow of the kiss aimed squarely at that other skater. The commentators’ voices narrate over the footage, practically salivating over the drama of it all.

“It wasn’t just her skill that had the crowd roaring,” one of them says with a chuckle. “That was a statement, folks. The kiss at the end was dripping with attitude. It’s all anyone’s talking about. People are calling it the ‘kiss seen ’round the world’ already!”

“Not to mention, did you see who she was aiming that at?” the other commentator adds with a laugh. “That wasn’t just a kiss for the audience—that was personal. Our sources are buzzing with rumors about the tension between her and the Russian favorite, and this just confirmed it.”

“Definitely adding some heat to the competition. This is shaping up to be a rivalry for the ages.”

The camera cuts to the Russian skater, her expression still cool and composed, though there’s an undeniable tightness to her posture, a simmering frustration just below the surface. It’s clear to anyone watching that your little display got to her.

“Whooo! She’s probably seething,” one of your teammates laughs, tossing her head back. “You really got under her skin with that one.”

The room fills with laughter and playful jabs, your teammates leaning into the cattiness of the moment. You’re not one to shy away from a little drama when it’s warranted, but you can’t help but roll your eyes, pretending to be above it all—even though a small part of you secretly loves it.

"Yeah, yeah, it was a moment,” you say, waving them off with a smirk. “It’s not that serious.”

“Oh, come on,” another teammate pipes up, sitting across from you. “You know that was the most iconic thing to happen all day. The commentators are practically obsessed with you now.”

You grin, unable to help yourself, but then you hear it—the kiss. The real kiss.

"And speaking of kisses…" the commentator’s voice lowers conspiratorially, as if he’s about to deliver some juicy gossip. “We’ve got some footage from after the routine that’s definitely got people talking."

Your heart skips a beat. They couldn’t be talking about that kiss. The one you shared with Sidney, could they?

The camera cuts to footage of you walking off the ice and into the kiss-and-cry area, and sure enough, there it is, caught on film—the quick, playful peck you gave Sidney on the cheek. The kiss that felt so impulsive but so right, in the moment.

Your teammates erupt into laughter, their eyes wide with delight. “Ohhh, no way!” someone shouts. “They caught that!”

The commentator’s voice returns, sly and teasing. “Looks like our gold-medal hopeful isn’t just a fierce competitor on the ice—there’s clearly something going on off it as well. A little victory kiss for someone special?”

“Is that Sidney Crosby?” the other commentator jumps in, clearly trying to contain his excitement. “It is! I’m calling it now: the hottest couple of the Olympics.”

Your face flushes red, and your teammates lose it. The locker room turns into a frenzy of laughter, teasing, and playful shouts.

“Oh my God, you’re in the tabloids now!” one of them cackles, clutching her sides. “They’re going to eat this up!”

"Seriously, we should be charging people for front-row seats to this drama," another teammate jokes, tossing a water bottle at you.

You cover your face with your hands, trying not to let the embarrassment take over, but you can’t help the smile creeping across your lips. You knew this was coming—Sidney is a massive deal, and your relationship was bound to catch the media’s eye at some point—but having it aired like this, right after one of the most important performances of your life? It feels like a lot.

“That was a cheek kiss, people,” you say, voice muffled as you shake your head. “It’s not a big deal.”

"Sure, not a big deal at all," your teammate mimics in a high-pitched voice. “Just a cheek kiss with Sidney Crosby, no biggie.” She winks. "But seriously, you two are adorable."

You groan, sitting back and letting the playful teasing wash over you. It's all in good fun, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Sidney. The way his cheek had felt warm against your lips, the way he’d smiled at you like you were the only person in the room. The commentators could speculate all they wanted—only you and Sidney knew what was really going on.

“Well,” one of your teammates says, pointing at the screen, “whether you like it or not, the world’s got its new favorite Olympic couple. You’re officially a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips quirking into a smirk. "Guess that means I’ll have to win gold now, doesn’t it?"

The room bursts into cheers and whoops, and even though you’re still a little embarrassed, you can't deny the spark of pride warming your chest. You may not have asked for the attention, but if people were talking about you, it was because of your performance. The kiss—both kisses—were just the icing on the cake.

As the chatter dies down and your teammates go back to their phones and conversations, you glance at the screen one more time. Your face is still up there, smiling, skating, kissing. The cameras are still following you, and now the world is watching your every move.

And somewhere in the crowd, watching all of this unfold, is Sidney. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, whether he’s amused by all the media buzz or quietly rooting for you to rise above the chaos, like he always does.

───

A couple of weeks have flown by, and life feels like a whirlwind. The days blur into each other, each one filled with intense training, interviews, and media attention, but you’re thriving in it. You’ve hit your stride—the moment where everything just clicks. The routines you’ve practiced for years feel effortless, like second nature, and every time you step on the ice, the crowd roars just a little louder.

You’ve gone from being an underdog to the one everyone’s talking about—the name on every commentator's lips. They’re calling you a "generational talent" now, comparing you to the legends of the sport. It’s surreal.

At every competition, you push yourself further. Your performances are more than just technical mastery—they’re performances, filled with personality, elegance, and a certain kind of fire that no one else has. The crowd can feel it. So can the judges. Your scores reflect that, each one higher than the last, inching closer to the perfect mark.

But the real magic is in how you’ve taken control of the narrative. It’s not just about your skating anymore; it’s about you. The girl who sent shockwaves through the arena with a playful kiss, the figure skater who got her get back. You're unstoppable right now.

The media follows your every move, dissecting each routine, each interview, each glimpse of you with Sidney. They’ve dubbed you "The Queen of Ice"—a title that feels daunting but fitting. You’re skating with a newfound confidence, and your momentum is undeniable. It’s almost like you’re skating for something bigger now, fueled by the pressure and expectation, but instead of letting it weigh you down, you thrive under it.

On top of that, the Canadian hockey team is doing just as well, if not better. Sidney and his teammates are on a tear through the tournament, steamrolling the competition with a precision and intensity that’s impossible to ignore. The headlines are full of glowing reports about how the team is clicking, playing like a well-oiled machine, and Sidney’s name is front and center. Every game, he’s putting on a clinic, and just like you, people are starting to use the word legendary.

It’s crazy to think about how things have shifted so quickly. Not long ago, you were just hoping to make an impact, and now you and Sidney are always in the headlines, dominating in your respective fields. The media plays it up, of course—every now and then you catch an article about "Olympic royalty" or some speculative piece about your friendship-relationship-rivalry (you're not sure what it is, anymore), but you’ve learned to tune it out.

Still, it’s hard not to feel proud when you see your name in another headline. It’s not just about the gossip or the hype—it’s about what you’re doing. You’re succeeding at the highest levels of your sport and you’ve worked your whole lives for this moment, and now, you’re in it. Living it.

You’re in the Olympic Village after practice, sitting with your teammates in the common area, watching the latest round of highlights on TV. The hockey team had just demolished their last opponent, and the commentators are practically swooning over the way Sidney’s been playing.

"Another incredible game from Crosby," one announcer says, his voice full of admiration. "The guy is playing out of his mind. He’s always been good, but this? This is something else."

“Yeah,” another commentator adds, shaking his head in disbelief. “If he keeps this up, there’s no doubt they’ll be in the finals. And honestly? I don’t see anyone beating them.”

One of your teammates nudges you, grinning. “You hear that? Your boy is killing it out there.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you felt a flush rise in your cheeks. “He's not my boy, shut up.”

Your teammate just laughs and shrugs, looking back up at the TV.

The screen cuts to a highlight reel of you from the most recent competition, and the room quiets as everyone watches. The slow-motion shots of you mid-jump, your spins and edges so crisp and precise, make it look almost effortless.

“Look at that,” the commentator gushes. “She’s redefining what’s possible on the ice. It’s not just about her technical skill—it’s the way she connects with the audience. She’s performing at a level we haven’t seen in years. You can see it in the way she moves—the confidence, the passion. She knows she’s the best right now, and she’s skating like it.”

Your teammates break out into cheers, some of them even clapping. You hide your face in your hands, half-embarrassed, half-proud.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” you say, laughing. “It’s just one performance.”

One of your teammates smirks. “Nah, sweetheart, you’ve had like ten of those just one performances. Own it.”

You lean back, still smiling, but your mind wanders for a second. All the attention, all the pressure—it’s a lot. But then you think about Sidney, how he handles everything with such grace and focus. You’ve watched him lead his team to victory after victory, never letting the noise get to him. It’s inspiring. And it makes you want to keep pushing yourself, to live up to that same standard.

As the hockey highlights come to an end, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You glance at it, and your heart skips a beat when you see Sidney’s name.

Sidney: Saw the kiss thing on TV again. Apparently we’re the new "it couple."

You can’t help but smile. You ignore the weird butterflies that begin forming in your stomach—it's just Sidney.

You: Oh, so now you’re famous because of me, huh?

Sidney: Obviously. Also, everyone’s calling you the GOAT now. When are you going to start teaching me how to skate?

You: I’m already teaching you how to win.

There’s a pause before his next text, and you can practically hear him laughing through the screen.

Sidney: Touché. But seriously—you’re killing it. Proud of you.

You stare at the screen, his words sinking in. It’s such a simple message, but coming from him, it means the world.

You: Right back at you.

You tuck your phone away, feeling a quiet surge of giddiness. You glance at your teammates, looking at you almost expectantly—you immediately regret it.

“Oh, shut up!”

[hockeygirl101]

Sidney Crosby

Husband and wife 18+

Warnings- this story contains 18+ content. Including- sex (no condom), domsid, subreader, breeding kink, marriage, ass slapping, dirty talk. Please be advised. Thank you.

Sid’s laughter echos through the hotel hallway as we speed walk to the elevators. The wedding had been perfect, Sid looked so handsome, I had reminded him of that fact every chance I got, making him blush once or twice. As the evening went on, we both drank more and more. Once the wedding had evened, guest returning to the hotel, we made our way upstairs.

The second we had stopped foot in the elevator, Sid had been on me, grabbing my waist practically pulling me onto him. His lips found mine quickly, pulling me into a deep, wet hot kiss. His hands finding my ass underneath my dress, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. I gasp at the sudden pain, Sid takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in my mouth, exploring as deep as I’ll let him. The elevator dings, alerting us of the arrival at our floor. Sid gently removes me, breaking the kiss staring into my eye.

“Never thought I’d get you here.” He mumbles as he leads us out. Into the hallway, fishing the key out of his pocket. I understand where he’s coming from. Sid was older than me, by quite a few years. I was only 21 when we met, now 24 getting married. Sid was 37 when we met, he had swept me off my feet at a charity event for the team. He had asked me to dance and that had been it. I knew I was going to marry him. Not for his money or his fame. But for loving me, treating me like an equal no matter what. I had finished my degree in journalism, I had a good paying job. Sid is just my husband, nothing more, nothing less. We arrive at the door, before he opens it I tug his jacket making him face me.

“I love you, so much.” I lean up and place a delicate kiss on his cheek.

“I love you too baby.” He whispers back opening the door. “But right now, I’m going to fuck you like I don’t. Go get undressed.” He says moving to the bathroom closing the door. A chill runs up my spine, I quickly unzip my dress and step out. I sit in the edge of the bed waiting for Sid, I can hear him in the shower. Once the water turns off I hear the door open. Suddenly he’s in-front of me.

“Good girl.” He bushes some hair out of my face, smiling down at me. “Now face down ass up.” He drops the towel, I stare. Even after all these years I still wasn’t used to seeing just how much of a man he truly was. I apparently don’t move fast enough, before I know it, Sidney is man handling me into the position he wants me. Giving my ass a quick smack he leans down to me ear.

“You have no fucking idea how hard I’ve been all night. The dress is so pretty baby, you looked so beautiful. Can’t wait to fuck my wife yea?” He mutters in my ear, causing me to whine out. “No whining, I’m giving it to you.” He says as he slowly slides his cock into me, stretching me out. I can’t even think a coherent though, he slides in inch by inch. Finally bottoming out, he takes my hands a holds them behind my back.

“Feel so tight baby, always so tight for me aren’t you.” He sets a steady pace, fucking his cock into me. I can’t even form words, just moaning and mumbling nothing. Sid slaps my ass again, making me moan loudly.

“Yea, all those years of having the guys chirp me for dating such a younger thing, yet here you are falling apart on my cock. And now I got a rock on that pretty little finger you’re not going anywhere are you baby?” Sid says as he picks up the pace, reaching down and rubbing my clit. My legs start to feel numb, I can feel the orgasm building in my lower stomach. Sid feels it too, rubbing my clit faster.

“Atta girl cum on my cock, yea cum on your husbands cock. Good girl.” My eyes shut and I let out a small scream as I cum. Sid not letting up his pace, I try to look back at him but he pulls out and flips me in my back. Looking down at me smirking.

“Gonna put my baby in you now, yea? Be a good wife, be a good mommy to? Make me a daddy?” He whispers in my ear as he slides in again, fucking me fatser and harder. He keeps whispering about making me a mommy my mind goes numb at the thought. Sid leans down and takes my nipple in his mouth, biting it. Making me snap back to reality.

“Yea you wanna be a mommy? Stay home and have my babies all the time? Having me cum balls deep inside you? Fuck baby, that’s it milk my cock.” Sid growls out as I clench around him, cumming again. Sid fucks into me for a few more strokes before finishing inside me. He lays on top of me gently, making me feel warm and safe.

“Good girl baby, did so good for me. Gonna stay inside so it sticks yea?” I nod as he rolls us over. Trying not to let any spill out. I burrow my head into his side, Sid stroking my hair, whispering sweet nothings into my ear as I fall asleep.

I love being married.

[homestylehughes]

husband sidney headcanons

pairing(s): sidney crosby x fem!reader

summary: sweet and sexy headcanons of sidney!

warning(s): sfw and nsfw!

wc: 520

an: hi loves!!! first time writing for the dilf of hockey himself sidney crosby. idk how it's taken me this long to write about him, but i'm not complaining!!! i saw a picture of him this morning and it makes me feral so i wrote about him!!! lmk if you guys want anymore sidney fics in the future, i'd be morreeeeeee than happy to write about him!!! i'm getting back into the groove of writing again, and after not writing for a week, made me realize how much i missed itttttt. like and reblog if you like! much love as always!!

happy reading <3

sfw:

husband!sidney: Sidney is the type of husband to wake you up with kisses all over your body, causing you to giggle as you wake up. Wrapping you up on the tightest hug ever, sinking into his warm body in the morning is your favorite way to wake up. 

husband!sidney: Sidney would be the type of person who would pick you up from the airport, holding a funny sign in his hands waiting for your arrival. The signs never fail to bring you to tears of laughter from how funny they were, it's the best thing to come home too. 

husband!sidney: You always try to stay up for Sidney when he gets back from long road trips, posting up on the couch with a book in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. You manage to stay awake for a while, before you feel your eyes start to close as your eyes dance across the pages of your book, falling asleep before you even know it. Sideny walks into your shared house, he softly smiles as he sees the living room dimly lit, seeing you sleepy peacefully on the couch he can't help but smile at you with love in his eyes. 

husband!sidney: Sidney is so good with children, seeing how he acts around your nieces and nephews and other children at hockey camps makes your baby fever increase by the second. 

husband!sidney: Sidney loves your baked goods, he's convinced that everything you make is heaven sent from God, but your baked goods? Those are his favorites. Anything from cupcakes, cookies, everything and anything. He gives a request of things he wants you to make for him, at least once a week, even baking things for the team and fundraising events. 

husband!sidney: Sidney loves surprising you with a new bouquet of flowers each week, always doing small things to remind you how much he loves you. 

nsfw: 

husband!sidney: Sidney loves to watch you fall apart from beneath him, the way your head drops back, how your mouth falls open as you gasp for air. The pants and moans are enough to make him come again. 

husband!sidney: Sidney has a huge breeding kink. He wants nothing more than to see you carrying his child. He loves stuffing you full of his come, holding it inside of you, just to make sure you get every drop. 

husband!sidney: Your favorite part about Sidney's body is his hands, especially when they’re wrapped around your throat. The way you gasp and moan out below him telling him to tighten his grip on your neck. 

husband!sidney: sidney is a big fan of car sex, he loves how easy it is to rile you up, then bend you over the back seat and fuck you until you forget your name. 

husband!sidney: He loves loves loves, whenever you ride his face. The way your thick thighs wrap around his head, moaning out above him as he devourers your wet cunt, eating it like a man that hasn't had water or food in days. 

[behoright]

ultraviolet disguise l s. crosby

don’t be so naive / you know that you are all I see

summary: Sid makes you apologize after you give him attitude all night.

wordcount: i literally don’t know how to word count on my iPad please someone tell me I swear it’s not too long maybe 4k

song: tonight you are mine - the technicolors

warnings: minors dni! Contains a whole lot of cursing and smut. Quite degrading and rough as well, so please read at your own discretion.

a/n: plotless, plotless smut. poor proofreading lol. When I say I would let this man do anything to me, I mean it. Feel free to fill my inbox with your thots. Love you always.

(＞。☆) ✒️ ˚‧ ⌗ ⌗ ⌗ ⺌

“Where is she?”

“Can someone go find her?”

Your group of friends was currently shivering on the sidewalk, in the Nova Scotia winter, as they drunkenly waited for their rides to take them home. All necessary interactions exchanged, and many waiting to happen behind closed doors, only a couple of people were sober enough to round up everyone and finally call it a night.

Sidney being one of them, noticed instantly they had left you behind.

In all honesty, he was cranky and tired, the frustration having built up from babysitting a bunch of wasted people.

“Isn’t she a grown ass woman or whatever. She can figure it out on her own.” someone slurred.

“Alright, I’m not missing our Uber because of this.” Sidney said, making his way back inside the bar with a huff. No one was coherent enough to go back in there anyways.

The place was packed, people happily mingling at every corner; thankfully, Sid had a great height advantage to almost everyone, so was able to spot you effortlessly through the chattering crowd.

As he walked over to you, thoughts and memories of the messiness that constituted your friendship plagued him, his heart quickening pace inside him.

“Are you done or what?” he spoke loudly above the music and chaos.

“Almost.” you said as you barely turned around to acknowledge him.

“Everyone’s waiting for you, let’s go.” He replied impatiently.

“I’m waiting for this guy to gi-”

“I really don’t care. We’re leaving.” he said, strictly, inching his body towards you and the exit.

Sidney used his physical edge to push you through the crowd, hurrying you with his haste steps right behind you.

“I don’t need you to do this, you know? I’m an adult.” you hissed as you kept walking.

“Well, then maybe start acting like one.”

“Dude, what the hell is your problem?” you exclaimed, turning around and bumping into his chest. Despite your size difference, Sidney felt like he ran into a brick wall.

He sighed, grabbing your arm harshly and pulling you into the nearby bathroom.

“What is your problem?” he said, raising his voice while locking the door behind him.

No one was going to use the bathroom until he figured out where your attitude was coming from.

“I haven’t done anything to you, Sidney.” you muttered.

“Oh yeah? You’ve been acting like a bitch the whole night.”

“Woah. What would the press say about hometown superstar Sidney Crosby using this kinda language?” you snickered, crossing your arms.

“Why are you being so… mean?” Sidney’s eyes narrowed at you.

“What are you talking about?”

“Just, fucking, pushing me away all night, like I don’t even exist.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t kiss your ass like everyone around here does.” you said, rolling your eyes.

“That’s NOT what it is and you know it.” he yapped.

“I thought you said I needed to stay away from you. I’m too young or whatever.”

Sidney hadn’t rejected you per se, but at that moment, you both recalled the conversation from a while ago.

The conversation that was supposed to put all flirting to a half.

From both of you.

Supposed to.

“It’s not only that, Y/N. You’re Mike’s niece, it’s not right.” he replied, running his hands through his dark hair.

“Fine! Then why are you so mad when I ignore you?” you prompted, throwing your hands up.

“Not only did you mostly ignore me, you, were fucking rude the rest of the time, and I mean, you’re obviously so fucking desperate too.” Sidney almost word vomited, clearly ignoring most of what you said.

“How, Sidney? Literally, how?”

“I mean, look at what you’re wearing!”

“I meant how was I rude.” you said, making him blush at the miscommunication, too embarrassed to even respond. “Why are you worried about my dress so much?” you teased.

“Oh my god, you’re so fucking annoying.”

You knew what this was.

Like a child, throwing a tantrum to get their mother’s attention, basically.

It was obvious to you that bowing down to his ridiculous comments wasn’t an option.

Not yet.

“You like it?” you said, running your hands down the cheap fabric that sat tightly against your body.

“No, I did not say that. I don’t like it.” he muttered, slightly looking away from you.

There was something quite entertaining about rendering a huge, masculine man down to this blubbering of a mess.

“Why not? Is it too slutty for you?” you laughed.

Sidney’s eyes were burning into you, now quite differently than before, as he turned his attention back to you fully.

Nevertheless, he remained silent.

“You holding back, Sid? Why? You don’t want to call me a slut to my face?”

“I would never do that.” he hit back, his low voice echoing in the tiled bathroom.

Looking out of the small window for a second, you sighed. It was too late, and everyone was waiting anyways.

Perhaps tonight you’d throw in the towel. He obviously already had.

“Whatever. We need to go anyways.” you said, walking towards the door.

“No, we’re not leaving until I get an apology from you.” he hit back, positioning himself between you and the exit.

Or… maybe he hadn’t, you thought, seeing that spark still in his voice.

“Good fucking luck with that.” you laughed.

“Just say you’re sorry.”

“I should be asking for the same thing, I mean, you’ve been pretty rude.”

“Because you were rude first!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms up.

“Do you hear yourself? I thought you were the “real” adult here.” you snickered.

He took a step closer just to have you take a step back.

There was no conceding tonight, actually.

He wasn’t getting any apology out of you anytime soon, and the more you stood your ground, the heavier his chest began to heave.

Unbeknownst to him, you knew Sidney perhaps too well.

He was simply too easy to read, always hiding under the hockey personality facade.

It might have fooled anyone else, especially, any other girl, but not you.

Throughout the months you had spent together, it had been incredibly simple to get to know him.

It was only after he distanced himself away from you that you decided to press his buttons.

He fell for it each time, his impulsiveness and real, undercover feelings exposing him and failing your tests constantly.

“You’re really, really pushing it tonight, Y/N.” he muttered.

“Fuck if I care.” you said, raising your shoulders.

Poor Sid, you thought, such masochistic tendencies he had.

If he could only burst his media trained bubble for a second, you could’ve had fun with that together.

“Fucking say sorry.” he repeated, once again.

He was slowly beginning to unravel, his feelings showing clearly through the tense muscles of his body language.

“Or what, Sidney?”

“God, you’re such a fucking brat.” he said, raising his voice, louder than ever before.

“Oh, there he is. Finally, you’re saying what you really think.” you smiled sweetly at him.

“You’re so fucking spoiled, it’s driving me insane.” he said, keeping the slow walk going towards you.

“Keep going, Sid, you’re just making this more enjoyable for me.”

“Yeah, of course this kinda of shit turns you on.”

“You’re one to talk.” you say, flicking your eyes down at the noticeable bulge in Sidney’s pants.

“We’re at a club, Y/N. Not everything is about you.” he said, rolling his eyes and yet attempting to close the space between you two.

“Then why are you here with me?”

“Because you won’t listen to me!” he exclaimed, his legs still moving towards you. “Is this what i have to do to get you to listen?”

“…Yes.” you whispered, and Sidney felt like he finally was starting to break you down.

“Drop the act, Y/N. Tell me what’s going on.” he sighed.

By now, Sidney had covered all the space in the bathroom, and found himself face to face with you against the wall, your fiery eyes looking up at him.

You had walked around in circles enough with him, literally and figuratively.

“If I could spit in your face I fucking would.” you said roughly, your eyes stuck inside his chocolate eyes.

“Do it, then.” he said, his face tilted down towards yours.

“Enough, Sidney.”

The smirk that you had so proudly sported all this time was long gone, Sid building up enough courage to now talk back to you.

“I thought you wanted to? Do it, then. Spit in my face.” he encouraged, smugly.

“You fucking wish.” you said, pushing against him with your chest.

“Woah, woah, calm down, now.” he chuckled, his fingers wrapping around your arms to keep you against the cold tiles of the bathroom.

You couldn’t hide the way his touch made you feel - you had dreamed to be in his hands for a while, and feeling him now just made you wetter.

Unfortunately for you, he noticed right away, his expression morphing into puzzlement as he took you in.

“Look at you. You like this, don’t you?” he asked, incredulous.

“Never in a million years.”

“Then what is this?”

Sidney’s eyes flickered down to your breasts, the hard nipples poking through your dress instantly giving you away.

“It’s cold, Sid.”

“I don’t know, your skin feels pretty warm under my hands.” he raised him eyebrows, moving his hands slightly up and down.

Plan foiled.

“Is this what this is all about?” he questioned, but you kept your lips zipped in frustration.

Sidney took an impossible step forward, your chests coming in contact.

“If I touch you down here, Y/N, what will I find?” he asked, trailing his fingers down your left arm gently.

“I don’t know, maybe if you ever fucked a girl before you’d know.”

“That’s a good one, baby.” he laughed. He couldn’t help it, seeing you so feisty just… for him.

That was all you wanted, apparently.

He kept his eyes locked onto yours, looking for approval as he lingered his fingers in front of your sex. As he got what he needed, he wasted no time in moving your underwear to the side.

“That’s what it is. You’re just dying to get fucked right.”

Sidney whispered a heavenly oh my god as his calloused, thick fingers rubbed your folds.

“Did raising my voice make you feel all hot inside?” he asked.

“No.”

“You’re fucking soaking my fingers, Y/N. Quit lying.”

He knew he could stretch you out immensely just by using a couple of his digits; but he decided not to, taking his touch just to your entrance and circling your clit, with no added pressure, making your head painfully fall back.

“I’m barely touching you and you’re already moaning. You’re so desperate, aren’t you?” he coaxed.

No witty come back spewed out of your mouth, the slight relief and building anticipation of indulgence growing deeper within you.

“You really want to be put in your place, huh? That’s all you want?”

His touch had you at a loss for words; you could barely nod in between needy whines.

“Stroke my cock, c’mon.” he said, his voice husky as ever, as he placed your hand on top of the swollen erection that was poking through his dress pants.

It was becoming hard to focus, hard to touch him right, Sidney refusing to dip his fingers at any point inside you, instead just painfully teasing you.

“Oh, you just think I’m going to fuck you like that?” he asked, dropping his hands away from you.

“Fuck no. Work for it.” he said aggressively. “Get on your knees.”

Your knees found the floor promptly, betraying your will but getting a satisfied smirk out of him.

“Look how obedient you’re being now, huh?” Sidney said, his fingers fastly undoing his pants in front of you. “Open up, baby. Let me see your tongue.”

Sidney slapped his cock on your tongue a couple of times before thrusting inside your mouth, not giving you a chance at any action but to wrap your lips around his girthy cock instantaneously, moaning in satisfaction.

“Holy fuck.” he moaned, letting his head lull forward with his bottom lip secured under his teeth. “This is what I have to do, isn’t it? I have to treat you like this, for you to-, to-, fuck, oh my god.”

You pulled Sidney’s length into your throat, your muscles tightening in a gag around his thick head, mostly in order to break him further and to stop his gloating.

“God, where did you learn how to do that, fuck.” he groaned deeply, lacing his fingers in your hair, instinctively massaging your scalp sweetly.

“You’re so much nicer when you’re choking on my dick like this.” he continued, his thighs tightening and clenching under your hands as you bobbed your head on him, thick saliva building at the back of your throat as you somehow devoured him more and more.

If he was holding back any moaning, it was hard to tell, his abs visibly clenching whenever you took him deeper and he, consequently, moaned louder.

“This is a good, good way to say sorry, baby.” he growled, his head thrown back, but stopping your motions right away.

“I’m not saying sorry, Sidney.” you said, pulling away from his cock so quickly that you were left with a trail of spit connecting you back to his glistening head.

He felt his chest fill with anger and lust, desire.

All he wanted to do was take you home and fuck you until you couldn’t talk back to him any longer. He instinctively wrapped his fist tightly around your hair, pulling you up by your locks.

“Look how messy you are.” he muttered as you came to your feet, his big eyes trailing over your shimmering chin, dripping in spit and precum. “Come here.”

Sidney shoved his tongue inside you, placing his other hand around your throat gently. He loved to keep your head steady as he overwhelmed your mouth, running his tongue over yours with no rhythm or caution, simply taking whatever he wanted.

“I guess I just have to fuck this attitude out of you.” he said against your lips as he pulled away breathless. “Face the fucking wall.”

As he turned you around, you did your best to hide the huge smirk on your face. He was finally going to give you what you both so desperately wanted; despite what he said, Sidney’s actions had always proved different than his words.

He hated that he had such a hard time resisting you, that he spent his night thinking about you with his cock throbbing in his hand, but he couldn’t wait anymore.

The rubber band had finally snapped.

Sidney squeezed your ass, your silky flesh crinkling in exquisite pain through your thin dress. He kept marking you with his fingertips as his other hand roughly pulled down your minuscule underwear, letting it trickle down your legs as he directed your ass towards him.

He tried to keep his composure as he pulled your dress up, the traces of his fingernails on your skin illuminated by the small ray of the street lamp that came through the high bathroom window.

It was hitting you perfectly, actually, so much so that he could see the glob of your wetness leaking out of your entrance, your pussy angled perfectly towards him.

“I would tell you how pretty you look like this but you don’t deserve it.” he spit out, beginning to stroke his member up and down your slit.

“You’re so fucking needy for me. I can’t believe how wet you are, God.”

Without warning, Sidney filled you up completely, ripping a gasp out of you as he gave you no time to adjust. His size made it hard to breathe or even keep your legs from wobbling already.

“Yeah, you’re not used to taking big cocks like this, aren’t you.” he questioned, readjusting the grip in your hair once again. “Well, you’re going to tonight.”

He began to fuck you, almost savagely, every mouthwatering plunge hitting your cervix and stretching you to your max. Sidney grunted deeply every time he moved. He knew that as much as he tried to keep it together, you could see the cracks within him, giving into you. But he knew he couldn’t back down without teaching you a lesson.

“Say sorry.” he groaned in your ear, but all he got in response were sweet moans.

Frustrated, Sidney picked up the pace, slamming himself harder against you and inside you. Your body rebounded against the wall harder every time, an aching starting to cover every inch of your skin, seeping within you and mixing with the unrelenting desire that he was sending through your being.

Whenever he wanted, Sid would move his right hand, squeezing and grabbing any bit of you that pleased him.

He was big enough to have access to your every part.

The back of your thigh, or the side of your tummy were covered in his fingertips, flecks of his rough handling beginning to dot all over you.

Your nipples oversensitized, having been rubbed against the freezing tiles through the fabric of your dress were the only sensation cooling you down as he kept increasing his rhythm, his heart pounding heavily against your back.

“Yeah, I bet that feels good, doesn’t it?” he said, tilting your head so he could see you. “Look at those pretty eyes rolling back. Fuck.”

The sounds that filled up the room were filthy, he thought.

Sidney felt primal, taking you in the bathroom of a sleazy bar, not because he had let himself go, but because it pleased him to put you in your place.

The buckle of his bell dinging against his pants as he sped up.

His heavy breathing fusing with your candied moans, reverberating against the empty stalls.

The squelching of your bodies united, drops of want and longing and frustration running down both of your legs, splattering against the ground or soaking his pubic hair - it was so dirty and out of character for him.

Only you drove him to this.

Knowing that he was the only one that could hear this, all of it being covered by the muffled sounds of the raging bar outside, made him grip your hair a little tighter each time he focused on it.

This was the closest he had ever been to your face. Underneath the light sheen of makeup, he could see your skin turning a deeper shade of red; those big and thick lashes he loved so much batting irregularly. He noticed you wanted to regulate your response to him, attempting stupidly to keep your pupils focused on him instead of oscillating to the back of your head once again.

But he could see right through you.

He could see you struggle, with your telling high pitched moans, trembling underneath his touch.

It exasperated him. Delightfully.

“You want to cum so badly, don’t you? Yeah?” he asked, almost mockingly.

You nodded, the pull from his hand making the roots of your hair sting more and more, pulling your face in such a pathetic way that kept Sid’s cock covered in wetness.

“Too fucking bad. You don’t get to until you apologize.” he barked, pressing your heating cheek against the wall.

Your defiance was obvious; you decided to keep this little game going a while longer, considering it made him so mad and delirious, pushing his pelvis so forcibly against you that your ass bounced audibly on him.

“Apologize. Be good, c’mon.” he uttered in your ear, doing his best at holding back his groans as he slowed his thrusts down.

Playing was for two people, after all, and he knew the change of pace would be what you despised the most. It was immediately evident, groans of desperation pouring out of you.

Still, you could see stars of pleasure as you squeezed your eyes tightly in anguish.

“Now, Y/N.” he demanded, a hand coming down to spank you harshly.

If it was up to him, he would have kept this going forever.

He had thought about a million ways to punish you throughout the whole night.

You were lucky he only had a public bathroom available at the moment.

He could feel you on the verge of breaking, both in the cracks of your voice, the fact that you were pushing back at him slightly, your body looking for more, and of course, your cunt clamping firmly on his cock through the wetness. He made the decision to keep the thought to himself as an attempt to keep you as tamed as he had you at the moment.

All he needed was to slow down even more.

As adorable as your squeals were, and as much as they made his dick twitch noticeably inside you, he wasn’t going to let up.

“I’m sorry, Sid.”

Eureka.

For once, Sidney had the upper hand. He made you putty in his hands and you equally knew it.

“Good job.” he said, fucking you roughly again.

He went back up to max, tightening his jaw as your pussy sent waves of toe curling pleasure down his cock. He was leaking inside you, precum spilling all over and painting your insides.

“I’m so sorry, Sidney, I’m sorry.” you repeated, his eyes on your face.

“That’s okay, baby. Just once was good, love. You’re so good. So good.” he said placing his lips against your cheek.

The act of tenderness made you quiver.

If you had let up once, you could finally fully let go.

You could feel his pupils dilating in lust as your mouth was stuck open, blaring your sobs and cries as your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks.

Ceaseless in his fucking, he seemed to thrust harder as he got closer too.

Sidney refrained from rubbing your clit. He wanted to, yet this was still a punishment.

“Atta girl.” he coaxed. “Keep coming for me, baby. Can you do that?”

You nodded dumbstruck, your eyes crossing deplorably as you kept shaking in bliss.

Sidney was focused on you; he noticed a silver thread of spit leave your bottom lip, your face still roughly pushed against the wall with his force, and he lost it.

“I need to cum, baby, I’m going to cum inside you, fuck.” he hastily groaned.

He growled deeply, thrusting all the way inside you and grinding into his orgasm as his cock let out hot cum within you.

“Fuck, baby, fuck.” his growls were deafening, numbing you and traveling throughout the stuffy air.

As you came down, you could feel him spasming yet inside you, his face still furrowed in a heated sweat - he had bottomed out inside ou, his strong pelvis lifting you a couple of inches off the ground, levitating under his gratification.

Soreness began to overtake you as the pleasure let down, all of Sidney’s muscles relaxing into you with a sigh; your heels clicked as he let you back off the wall slightly, pulling his cock out of you as he was still huffing.

The pain hurt so good for you both, breathing against each other as you tried to catch your breath at the same time.

“Look at me.” he said, turning you around so quickly you could have lost your balance, especially after he fucked you like that. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Seeing his usual sweetness come back made your heart swell, a smile growing on your face.

“I’m okay, Sid.” you said, biting your lip shyly.

“Now, what we’re going to do is…” he began after kissing your forehead, bending down to pull your underwear up, “put these on, keep my cum inside you, okay? Like a good girl, yeah, while we go out and grab a ride to my place. Yeah?”

You nodded, aroused that he wanted to keep this going.

“Good job.” Sidney placed his hand on your lower back, walking you to the door. “I’m not done with you yet.”

[cyarskj52]

aged like fine wine

[huggybearhughes43]

Call me?

John Marino x Fem!reader

Summary- John is away for a hockey game against the canes and all he wants to do when he gets back to his hotel room is to call you, his best friend.

Warnings- smut, phone sex, masturbation (m), dirty names, Johnnys sharing a room with someone (😇), itty bitty daddy kink

Words- 1.1k

John had been so busy with his schedule with the NJ Devils that he almost never had time to spend with me. Us two had been best friends since High school then Harvard and were pretty much inseparable since then. Even his twin brother, Paul, considered me family. Today was no different for his lack of time for me. He traveled to Raleigh, North Carolina for a game against the canes. Growing up, I always watched the Canes because that was my family's team but now that I’m so close with John, Itend to only watch the teams that he’s currently on. First the Oilers, then Penguins, and now the Devils. 

Even though I am seven hours away from him at the moment I still turned the game on the tv and watched for John. The game was insanely tight and nerve wracking, going into overtime still 0-0, I knew John would be upset. What made it even worse was the winning goal, the winning goal that the opposing team got. The buzzer going off and sirens going off to let everyone know that the Canes won. I sigh softly and turn off the tv. I pick up my phone and text John to call me when he’s back at the hotel.

I go about my night, laying down for bed, scrolling through my phone in the darkness as I wait for my best friend to call me. I turn on a movie and in about fifteen minutes I hear my phone ring softly. I pause the tv and pick up my phone, my face being softly illuminated by the tv. John looked as if he had just gotten out of the shower, presumably in the bathroom with water dripping out of his curly hair. 

I spoke up first, already knowing how he felt about the game. “Johnny” I smile softly, “I watched the game. You played so well.”. He laughs and shakes his hair then runs his hand through it. He sits his phone on the counter and I become aware that he’s shirtless and just has a towel around his waist. I’m suddenly so glad my face is barely lit up, I knew he couldn't see my face change to a softer red color. “Didn’t play good enough.” he sighs then looks in the mirror, looking disappointed but then he looks at the phone and grabs it, walking out of the bathroom. 

“How was your day, y/n?” he asks in a hush whisper. His face could no longer be seen on facetime, only a dark screen. I just assumed the player he was bunnking with had already gone to bed and he didn’t want to disturb them. I smile softly and start off from the beginning, like John always told me to do. He always wanted to know every detail, boring, exciting, he always wanted to know if I met anyone new or if I saw a pretty sunset. He especially loved hearing about my days when he was away for a game.

“Nothing much, same old same old.” I start off, “I got coffee this morning then went straight to work…” I think for a moment. “Kinley”, my work best friend, “introduced me to her new boyfriend. He was okay I guess, she’s had worse. I got off of work early and went out to eat with my mom at this fancy restaurant down by the coastline.” I smile at the memory, “It was freezing.” I trail off. “I ate those leftovers for dinner and I watched the first two Twilight movies… I’m on the third one now.” I laugh softly. I realize that Johnny has gone quiet but he’s ever this quiet when I talk about my days, he normally comments all through it. 

“Why’d you stop talking?” He asks in a light, breathy voice. I knew something was up and I rolled my eyes. “Thought you got bored of my day.” I smile. “No. K-keep talking.” he tells you and you raise your brows. “I- um, well I mean I watched the game but other than that I didn’t do anything else. You did play well, Though.” “Yeah?” he asks breathlessly. “Yeah.” I responded, “You looked good in that fight too.” I tease and laugh softly. I hear what sounds like a whimper come from his end of the call. “You okay, Johnny?” no response, seconds later he lets out a soft groan. “Johnny?” “Keep talking” he nearly moans out, “Please?”. I finally realize what he’s doing. 

“You could’ve just told me”. Me and John never dated but we were each other's first everything. First kiss, first smoking buddy, first fuck, basically first everything that counts. I sigh and lay back down on my bed. “I could’ve sent you something to help you” I say confidently. “Fuck, y/n… you can’t just make empty promises like that.” He moans, then bites his lip so his roommate doesn’t wake up. “It wasn’t empty… still need help?” “y/n, baby, please be a good girl and help me.” He bites back another moan. “Yes, sir” I say jokingly and set my phone down and pull off my shirt swiftly. I lay back on the bed again but this time I angle the camera so I can show off my bare breasts this time. “Better?” I ask innocently.

He moans out a ‘fuck’ and groans softly. “y/n, baby, I wish I were there to mark those pretty little tits, to cum on them… such a good girl f’me, hm? Like being a good girl for daddy?”. I smirk mischievously, he hasn’t said anything like that since college and it made a pool of wetness form in my panties. “Love being a good girl for you daddy.” I keep my smirk as I move my hand up and squeeze one of my tits, pinching the nipple and rolling it in my finger. “Fuck Johnny,” I whimper, “miss you s’much, wish it were you here doing this f’me.” I slur my words and my lips form into a soft smile as I hear a raspy groan from his end and I knew he was close. “Come on, daddy,” I egg him on, “Cum f’me, pretend you’re cumming in me… god, I wish you were.” I bite my lip and look straight into the camera. 

The flash suddenly comes on his camera, and I get a clear view of his abs twitching as he cums all over his stomach. “Made me make a mess” He huffs teasingly. I laugh softly and readjust the camera as I put my shirt back on then I bring it back to my face as it was at the beginning of the call. “Johnny, baby, get some rest. You gotta travel all the way to Seattle tomorrow.”. He groans in protest, “What about you? There’s no way you aren’t horny right now.” “Guess you’ll have to make it up to me when you come home for the game against the kings, hm?”

~

~

Yall, I kinda ate this one up

[angelsuecult]

it ain’t me babe | s. crosby

Part 1 | Part 2

“i’m not the one you want, babe

i will only let you down”

warnings: none.

summary: you feel out of place at a wedding with Sidney, left wondering where your relationship is going.

request: We need Sid and younger girlfriend attending a wedding 👀 here realizing that maybe Sid should see other people angsty slow burn fluff smut maybe?

word count: 7.7k

song: it ain’t me - joan baez

a/n: WHY DID NONE OF YOU TELL ME MY STORIES WEREN’T UPLOADING TO SCHEDULE?? And to the original author of the question please don’t hesitate to reach out if you hate it and would like a different approach!

Part 1 | Part 2

—

You’re barely fastening the clasp of your earring when the knock comes at your door.

Shit.

You glance at the time—Sid’s early. Of course, he is. The man knows you too well, knows you’d be running around last-minute, half-dressed and cursing yourself for not getting ready sooner. He does this on purpose, you swear.

“Hang on!” you call, stepping into your heels and padding toward the door. You take a second to smooth your dress down, inhaling to collect yourself before pulling it open.

And there he is.

Sidney Crosby in a suit has always been a dangerous thing, but this? Slate-gray with that slight blue undertone, crisp white shirt underneath, tie done just right. He wears it like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just knock the breath out of you for a second. The broad set of his shoulders fills your doorway, his stance easy but composed. You know his tailor probably had to fight with him to get the fit just right because God forbid Sidney spends a second longer than necessary picking out clothes.

His eyes flick over you, a slow, deliberate once-over. “Damn.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “That good?”

“That bad,” he corrects, stepping in slightly. His voice is low, edged with something appreciative. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You roll your eyes, but heat creeps up your neck anyway. “You clean up alright, I guess.”

Sid scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets as he gives you a pointed look. “Yeah? That the best I’m getting?”

You bite your lip, letting your gaze flicker over him. “Fine. You look—decent.”

His brows raise.

“Passable,” you add.

“You’re full of shit,” he mutters, stepping into your apartment fully now, shutting the door behind him. His eyes don’t leave yours, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Oh, pretty, huh?” you tease. “Not stunning? Not breathtaking?”

Sid exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You want a fuckin’ essay or somethin’? You look unreal, babe.” He leans in, voice dropping slightly. “Like I’m about to forget we have somewhere to be.”

You roll your eyes again, but your stomach flips. “Please. You’re so punctual, you’d probably have sex with me and still get us there early.”

That gets a laugh out of him, warm and low. “Multitasking’s a skill, y’know.”

You shake your head, turning to grab your clutch from the counter. “Alright, Romeo. Let me just—”

You pause, sighing. The clasp on your necklace is giving you a hard time, and your nails aren’t helping. You feel Sid behind you before he even says anything, his presence steady and familiar.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hands brushing against your shoulders as he takes over. His fingers are warm against your skin, careful as he fastens it for you.

You exhale. “Thanks.”

Sid doesn’t step away immediately. He lets his fingers drift lightly over your collarbone, tracing the chain before dipping lower, just slightly. His voice is casual, but you hear the edge of amusement in it when he murmurs, “You smell good.”

You smile, resisting the urge to lean back into him. “You always say that.”

“’Cause it’s true.” His lips brush against the side of your neck, and you can feel his smirk. “What is it?”

“Same one I always wear.”

“Then why does it smell better tonight?”

You laugh, finally turning to face him. “Maybe I put on extra just for you.”

Sid grins, hands settling lightly at your waist. “Mm. Thought so.”

You press your hands against his chest, the fabric of his suit smooth under your palms. “Alright, Crosby. We should go before you get too distracted.”

He smirks but steps back, reaching for the door. “You sayin’ I don’t have self-control?”

“I’m saying you’re full of shit.”

Sid just laughs, waiting for you to step out before locking up behind you.

And he leads you outside, his hand firm and familiar on your lower back as he walks you toward the car. The air is cool, but you barely feel it with the heat of him so close.

He gets to the passenger side first, opening the door like a gentleman—except the cocky smirk on his face ruins the moment entirely.

"Look at me, such a gentleman," he says, voice dripping with self-satisfaction.

You snort, stepping past him to get in. "I was just about to say that. So chivalrous, Sidney. I’m swooning." He lets out a laugh, standing just behind you as you gather the fabric of your dress so it doesn’t catch.

"C’mon princess, in you go," he says, voice laced with amusement.

You give him a look as you settle into the seat. "I can get in a car by myself, you know."

"Sure you can," Sid smirks and leans down, one hand bracing the top of the door as he watches you adjust yourself. "But then I wouldn’t get to stare at your ass while you do it."

You scoff, swatting at his chest. "Jesus, Sid. Buy me a drink first."

"First of all, you love it. Second, you don’t even like the drinks at these things," he says easily, eyes glinting. Then he leans down a little further, dropping his voice. "And third, you know I’m right."

Your face heats, but you roll your eyes as you grab the seatbelt. "Unbelievable."

He laughs, shaking his head as he steps back and shuts the door. You watch as he rounds the car, taking his time, looking unfairly good while doing it. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he throws you a look—one of those easy, amused ones, where his mouth quirks up like you’re the most entertaining thing in his world.

“You always get this high maintenance before you go anywhere, or am I just lucky?”

“Oh, it’s just for you, baby,” you say sweetly.

You buckle up, getting comfortable, and then—instinctively, automatically—you reach for the radio.

Sid groans before you even touch it. "Babe."

You don’t even look at him, flipping through stations like it’s your goddamn job. "What?"

"You do this every time."

"And?"

"And—" He gestures vaguely, exasperated. "You’re not gonna find anything you like."

"You don’t know that," you argue, still pressing buttons, your face drawn in concentration.

Sid rests his elbow against the center console, watching you with an amused kind of annoyance. "You’re gonna cycle through, sigh dramatically, and then just plug in your phone like you always do."

You shoot him a look. "Not true."

He raises a brow. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." He leans back, hands on the wheel, clearly settling in. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Take your time. I’ll just sit here, suffering."

"You’re so dramatic," you mutter, still clicking through static and commercials.

Sid just hums, watching in silence. You flip through three more stations before you sigh—dramatically, because fine, maybe he was right. You pull out your phone, scrolling through your playlists.

Sid laughs, loud and triumphant. "See? What did I fucking say?"

You huff, clicking on a song. "Shut up."

"You’re so predictable."

"You’re so annoying."

Sid just smirks, squeezing your thigh before pulling out of the parking spot.

You let the music fill the space, settling into the ride, before you reach up, flipping down the visor mirror. You check your reflection, tilting your head, adjusting an earring that doesn’t actually need adjusting.

Sid glances over. "Oh my god."

"What?" You swipe under your eye, checking for smudged mascara.

"Baby, you look fine."

"I just wanna make sure."

"You spent two hours getting ready."

"Yeah, and?"

"And—" He gestures vaguely again, exasperated. "You’re already fucking perfect. Stop fussing."

“Well, I need to make sure I stay perfect,” you say, adjusting your hair. “Can’t have people thinking you settled.”

Sid barks out a laugh. “Settled? Jesus, babe, I could show up to this thing in a fucking clown suit and people would still think I outkicked my coverage.”

You snort, capping your lipstick and tossing it into your clutch.

Which, speaking of—

Sid watches, shaking his head. "You carrying bricks in there?"

"It’s essentials."

"You don’t need all that shit."

You glance at him. "You questioning my process?"

"Absolutely."

You scoff. “It’s not that bad.”

Sid leans back in his seat, smirking. "Go on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got in there."

You narrow your eyes, but you humor him, setting your bag open on your lap and narrating as you pull things out one by one.

"Phone," you start, setting it aside. "Lipstick. Powder. Rings—"

"Why are your rings in there?"

"Because I didn’t feel like putting them on before I left, obviously," you say, slipping them onto your fingers now.

Sid shakes his head, grinning. "You’re something else."

You keep going. "Hair tie. Gum. Mini perfume, just in case—"

"In case of what? A body odor emergency?"

You ignore him. "Tampon."

Sid lets out a strangled laugh. "Well, that’s a buzzkill."

"You wish it was a buzzkill," you say, shoving it back into your clutch.

He smirks. "I do love an insurance policy."

You snort, giving him a playful shove before going back to your bag. "What else? Oh, mints."

"Why gum and mints?"

"In case I change my mind!"

Sid just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as you continue your inventory.

Finally, you zip your clutch shut and sit back, satisfied.

Sid glances at you, amused. "You good now? Got everything?"

You exhale, nodding. "Yeah. I think I’m good."

"Thank fuck," he says dramatically, throwing the car into drive.

You smack his arm, and he just laughs, shooting you a look as he pulls out onto the road.

"You love me," you remind him.

He grins, squeezing your thigh again.

"Yeah, yeah. Lucky me."

It takes about thirty minutes to get there. And, like a true gentleman, Sidney helps you out of the car and into the venue.

And it is stunning. High ceilings draped with soft white fabric, chandeliers casting a warm golden glow, round tables set with crisp white linens and floral centerpieces so perfect they look straight out of a magazine. There’s a soft hum of conversation, glasses clinking, and occasional bursts of laughter. A string quartet plays softly in the background. It’s the kind of wedding that is effortless in its elegance, the kind of wedding where you don’t just attend—you experience it.

Sid steps up right beside you, his hand tightens around yours as you take it all in. “Nice place, huh?”

You nod. It is nice—really nice.

And then, like clockwork, it begins.

“Crosby!”

A voice calls out from across the room, and before you can even register who it belongs to, Sidney is already flashing a grin, lifting a hand in an easy wave.

A guy you don’t recognize claps Sid on the back, grinning wide. You barely have a second to register his face before another man steps in, another handshake, another enthusiastic greeting.

Sid is swept up so seamlessly it’s like muscle memory for him. A laugh here, a nod there, a quick remark that makes the whole group erupt in laughter. You smile politely as introductions are made, shaking hands, exchanging names that you instantly forget.

And just like that, he’s gone. Not physically—Sidney’s still right beside you—but it’s like he’s already been swept into a current, drawn into a world that, despite standing right here, you aren’t really a part of.

You feel the exact moment Sid drops your hand. It’s not intentional, not cruel, just... mindless. Which somehow feels worse. And you’re introduced a couple of times—Sid’s younger girlfriend, the polite smiles, the pleasant nods.

Though you're sure they won’t remember your name.

Not when they’re too busy swapping stories, reliving old memories, throwing easy, teasing jabs at Sid—

“Christ, still single? What the hell, man?”

“You holding out on us, or what?”

“No wife, no kids, just hockey, huh?”

And Sid laughs because of course he does. He takes it in stride, throws a few chirps back, and makes them laugh even harder.

You stand there, hands wrapped around your clutch, a smile fixed in place.

Then, without so much as a glance in your direction, Sidney gently nudges you toward the reception area. “Why don’t you go find our table, baby. I’ll be there soon.”

It’s so thoughtless, so effortless, the way he says it. Like he doesn’t even think twice about sending you on your way.

And you? You don’t argue. You don’t tell him you’d rather stay by his side, that you’d rather be included. Because what would be the point?

So you go.

Your heels click against the floors as you weave through the crowd, offering polite nods and small smiles when necessary. People acknowledge you, but only in passing.

A couple at the bar glances your way, the woman offering a smile before turning back to her conversation. An older man—someone’s father, maybe—nods at you as you pass. Another woman, somewhere in her thirties, gives you a glance before returning to her drink.

No one stops you. No one pulls you into a conversation.

Because, to them, you’re just Sidney’s girlfriend.

Not someone with stories of their own, not someone with history or shared memories. No career in hockey so that automatically means your input isn’t welcome. Just the young woman on Sidney Crosby’s arm.

You find your table near the edge of the dance floor. It’s beautifully set—crystal glassware, gold-rimmed plates, a small handwritten place card with your name in elegant script.

But even as you lower yourself into your seat, smoothing the fabric of your dress over your lap, you feel the same lingering disconnect.

Sid is still across the room, engaged in yet another conversation. And then another. And another. And the others at your table have yet to acknowledge your presence.

It happens over and over again.

Someone calls his name, he turns, he smiles. A handshake, a laugh, a knowing nod. The conversations blend together—hockey stories, old teammates, friendly jabs about how he’s still at it, still playing, still single, still Sidney Crosby.

And maybe it’s the wedding, or the company, or the way he’s been effortlessly navigating the room while you’ve been left sitting alone even at a table full of people—but something tightens in your chest.

You take a sip of water, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of your own presence here.

Sid is still talking, still laughing. The people around him are engaged, captivated, drawn in by whatever story is being told.

And you?

You’re just… there.

And just like that, the night drags on.

One hour turns into two. Two turn into three.

In that time, you’ve hardly spoken a word.

You’re still here. Alone.

Still at this table, a glass of champagne untouched, half-eaten food sitting cold on your plate, the candle in the center of the table burning lower and lower.

Laughter, the tinkling of glasses, the low sound of music mingling with conversation. Time moves in a strange way here–too fast in some ways, too slow in others.

Sid’s still across the room. Different circle, same conversation. Or maybe it’s a new one. Maybe it’s the fifth or sixth or tenth. You’ve lost count. But he looks so at ease, so comfortable, like he belongs here in a way you never will. And as much as you love him, as much as you want to believe that you can fit in his world, moments like this make you wonder if that's even possible.

You’re pretty sure you could vanish from this chair and no one would bat an eye.

The first hour wasn’t so bad. You kept yourself occupied, playing with your utensils, checking your phone, sipping at your drink.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he dropped your hand. It might’ve been thoughtless, but that made all the difference.

The second hour was harder. You started feeling it then, the weight of being left with no one to talk to, especially because Sidney hadn’t joined the table for dinner.

Now? Now, you’re just here.

You haven’t spoken to Sidney since you arrived together. The others at your table are talking amongst themselves.

And you? Well you drum your fingers against the table, eyes scanning the room. The dance floor is packed now, couples swaying under dim lighting, some moving a little too slow for the tempo of the song. It’s romantic, in a way.

You love dancing at weddings, and well–Sidney’s far too busy entertaining his hockey groupies. Maybe you should ask that old guy sitting alone at the bar.

You wonder if Sid even knows what time it is.

You hear the sound of someone sitting down at your table. You look up, and a woman in her mid-40s, with perfectly styled hair and a glass of wine in hand, meets your eyes with a bright, curious smile.

“I hear you’re Sidney’s date tonight,” she says, her tone light but carrying that tone of curiosity.

You smile politely, already bracing yourself for the inevitable questions. “Yeah, that’s right.”

She exhales a soft laugh, something like intrigue flickering in her expression. “Wow. How old are you honey?”

The bluntness catches you off guard, but you force a smile. “Uh, twenty-four.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widen, and her hand briefly touches her chest, as if you’ve just told her you’re fresh out of high school. “What a surprise.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, unsure of how to respond. It’s not the first time someone’s commented on the age difference between you and Sid, and it probably won’t be the last. Still, the way she’s looking at you, like you’re some kind of curiosity, makes your skin prickle.

Before you can say anything else, a few other women, all in similar age brackets as the first, drift over to join the conversation. They greet the first woman warmly before turning their attention to you. Their eyes rake over you with thinly veiled interest, and you can already tell where this is headed.

“So,” one of them says, her tone laced with curiosity. “You’re Sidney’s date?”

“That’s what I just said,” the first woman replies with a knowing grin.

You nod, trying to keep your smile polite and neutral. “Yeah, I am.”

“Well, aren’t you a lucky girl,” one of the women comments, her tone a little too sweet. “I mean, Sidney Crosby! He’s, what, 35 now?”

You nod again, not really sure what to say. “Yeah, he just turned 35.”

Another woman, a blonde with sharp cheekbones and a diamond necklace that looks expensive enough to buy a house, lets out a soft laugh. “He’s practically a national treasure. I bet people just lose their minds when they see you two together.”

You smile, hoping the conversation stays at least somewhat friendly, but there’s a strange tension building that you can’t quite place.

One of the women, a brunette in a dress that clings to her figure, gives you a long, appraising look. “You know,” she says with a smirk, “you remind me of that movie with Richard Gere and the fiery redhead. What’s it called? Pretty Woman?”

Your brows knit together. “Oh, you think I look like Julia Roberts?”

She smiles, like you’re adorable. “You could say that. But I was thinking more about the other thing.”

You blink, the implication sinking in.

Oh.

Oh.

Your stomach twists.

The first woman giggles, catching on. “God, that’s awful,” she says, but she’s laughing like it’s not.

“I mean,” the blonde continues, swirling her drink, “it’s not that different, right? Gorgeous younger woman, powerful older guy…”

The third woman smirks. “Except in this version, the guy’s a hockey player instead of a businessman.”

“And he didn’t have to pay for her company,” the first woman adds with a giggle.

You laugh, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do? You laugh, because it’s easier than acknowledging the weight of their words, the way their comments slide under your skin like cold, sharp needles.

“Oh, come on,” the blonde says, nudging your arm. “You’re not offended, are you?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No, it’s funny.”

She smiles, satisfied, then takes a slow sip of her champagne.

The brunette lets out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Don’t take it the wrong way, sweetheart. It’s just that, well… you’re so young. Practically a baby. And Sidney? He’s… well, let’s just say it’s obvious why he’s with you.”

You try to laugh it off, but it sounds forced even to your own ears. “Right…”

One of the other women pipes up with a teasing grin. “Midlife crisis, right? Every man gets one eventually. They just want something young and fresh to keep them feeling young, you know?”

The second woman snorts. “Guess it was either a sports car or a twenty-four-year-old.”

“Well,” the third woman muses, tapping a finger to her chin. “A sports car probably wouldn’t keep him warm at night.”

You laugh again, though it feels hollow in your chest.

“Oh, come on, now,” the blonde chimes in again, clearly having fun with the way you’re squirming. “We’re just teasing. But really, how long have you been with Sid? A couple months? Bet he’s just swept you off your feet, huh?”

You open your mouth to answer, but one of the women cuts you off with a snicker. “Oh, I bet he has. Must be nice to have a guy like that, huh? With all that stamina...”

“God,” one of them says with a chuckle, giving you a once-over. “You are young. How long have you and Sid been together, really?”

“Over a year.”

“Over a year?” The other one lets out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s impressive. And you’re already sitting through one of these things? You must be committed.”

“Oh, come on, ladies. I think it’s sweet,” one of them drawls, swirling her wine. “Older men love a hot young thing on their arm. Keeps ’em feeling young.”

“Yeah, but at what point does it get sad? Like, at what age does it start looking more ‘divorced dad’ than ‘hot older guy’?”

“Probably when she graduates college.”

The laughter rolls through the group again, light and airy.

You hum, taking a slow sip of champagne. Though it tastes a little sour now.

“Besides,” another adds, smirking, “I bet Sid loves having someone so...energetic in bed.”

The table howls.

And fuck, you laugh, too, even though it feels more than wrong.

You feel raw, exposed, like they’ve pinned you down and picked you apart piece by piece, all while smiling, all while meaning nothing by it.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

They don’t even realize how shitty it is.

It’s not that the jokes are vicious.

It’s just that they’re at your expense.

And you let them be.

And Sid—Sid doesn’t even know. Why would he?

He’s still across the room, caught up in conversation, in familiarity, in a place that has always been his, while you sit here, drinking shitty champagne and wondering how the hell you ended up feeling this alone at a table full of people.

It's not his job to babysit you, though, is it? But would it have killed him to talk to you outside of dismissing you from his conversation? Or to sit and eat dinner with you? To ask if you wanted a drink. Or even to ask you to dance? Maybe that's why you feel so out of place. This isn’t your world; it’s Sidney’s, and that's perfectly fine. But would it be too much to ask for your date to spend a measly second with you?

Eventually, you slip out of the reception hall unnoticed.

No one calls after you, no one asks where you’re going.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

The air is cooler here, quieter, the distant hum of conversation and music muffled by the thick walls of the venue.

You don’t have a destination in mind, just an aimless need to be somewhere else—somewhere not at that table, smiling through another round of backhanded jokes and polite pleasantries.

And you find yourself in front of the coat check, a long bench against the wall offering a lonely place to sit.

You sink down onto it with a sigh, letting your head tilt back against the wall.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

The night’s almost over, anyway.

Right?

It’s been four—five?—hours. Who’s counting?

You tug your phone out of your clutch and check the time. Yeah. Five hours.

Jesus.

“You heading out?”

Blinking, you turn toward the coat check counter, where a young guy—early twenties, maybe—leans against the ledge. He’s got a tie loosely knotted around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a clipboard in hand. His name tag, slightly askew, reads Ethan.

“Not yet. No.”

He raises a brow, shifting his weight against the counter. “Just hanging out by the coat closet for fun, then?”

You smile, tapping your fingers against your knee. “I’m hoping my date will come looking for me, realize I’m gone, and we’ll head out.” You sigh dramatically. “Maybe in an hour or two.”

The guy snorts. “Damn. That bad, huh?”

You raise a brow. “Eh. It’s fine. You work a lot of weddings?”

“More than I can count.” He taps the clipboard against his palm. “Seen it all. Drunken speeches, fistfights, groomsmen throwing up in planters. You name it.”

You snort. “Sounds like a fun gig.”

“Oh, tons of fun,” he deadpans. “Nothing like watching a mother-in-law cry because she hates the centerpieces.”

You shake your head, lips curving.

“So,” he continues, cocking his head, “you on the bride’s side or groom’s side?”

“Neither,” you admit. “I’m a plus-one.”

“Ah. Who’s your date?”

“He’s an ex-teammate of the groom.”

He lets out a low whistle. “So, basically, everyone in there’s a hockey player.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

He leans his forearms on the counter, looking amused. “Failed, retired, or current?”

You grin. “All of the above.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “You’re not a hockey player, though.”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

He gives you a once-over. “Yeah, you don’t have the vibe. Too put-together. And you still have all your teeth.”

You laugh, genuinely this time.

He studies you for a beat. “So how’s your night been?”

You open your mouth to say fine, but what comes out instead is—

“Well, I just got called a hooker and a midlife crisis in one sitting, so.”

Ethan chokes. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrug.

“Who the hell’s your date?” he asks again, eyes narrowing. “Because he sounds like he fucking sucks at his job.”

You glance toward the closed doors of the reception, then back at him. “Sidney Crosby.”

Ethan stares at you. Then he exhales a laugh, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, there you have it,” he says. “Old as dirt Sidney with a… how old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

He raises his brows. “Eh. Not that bad.”

You huff. “Glad to hear it.”

“If it makes you feel better,” he adds, propping his chin on his hand, “I’ve already had to stop three drunk couples from trying to sneak into the coat closet to fuck.”

You lift a brow. “Three?”

He nods solemnly. “One of them was definitely old enough to be my parents.”

You grimace. “Christ.”

“Exactly.” He shakes his head. “So, really, your night could be worse.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “You mean I could be fucking in the coat closet?”

He grins. “See? Silver linings.”

You roll your eyes, stretching your legs out in front of you, smoothing your hands over your dress as you glance toward the coat check counter.

“So,” you say, tilting your head, “is this, like, your full-time gig?”

He shakes his head, adjusting his headset. “Nah. Just part-time. Helps pay for school.”

You perk up. “Ohh. College student.” A slow grin spreads across your lips. “You’re just a baby.”

His mouth drops open slightly before he lets out a scoff. “I’m 22, not 2.”

You hold up your hands in mock surrender, biting back a laugh. “Relax, kid.”

He points a finger at you. “You’re not even that much older than me.”

You pretend to be deep in thought. “Mmm. You say that, but I’m practically ancient in your eyes. What are 24-year-olds to you? Fossils?”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. If you’re a fossil, then Sidney Crosby is—”

“A museum exhibit,” you finish, nodding solemnly.

He grins. “Exactly. So, you're not that much older than me, then.”

You wave a dismissive hand. “In college years, two years is a lot. You’re still in that phase where you think mixing vodka with Gatorade is a good idea.”

He raises a brow. “And what phase are you in?”

You hum, pretending to think about it. “The phase where I know mixing vodka with Gatorade is only a good idea if you’ve got nothing else left in the fridge.”

He leans against the counter, shaking his head. “Jesus man, twenty-four and thirty-five is wild. That’s, like…” He pauses, pretending to do the math in his head. “That’s a whole thirteen years.”

Your mouth twitches. “11 actually. Solid math skills. College is treating you well, huh?”

He grins. “Damn right.” Then, after a beat, “So, what’s it like? Dating an elderly man?”

You snort. “Honestly? Kind of nice. Early bedtimes. Dinner at four-thirty. Always has Werther’s Originals in his pocket.”

He lets out a loud laugh. “No fucking way.”

You shrug, completely deadpan. “No point lying about it. Just last week he was complaining about his knees. His knees.”

He wipes a fake tear from his eye. “Unreal.”

You sigh dramatically. “The burden of dating an aging athlete.”

He grins. “You’re a real one for sticking around.”

You smirk. “Someone’s gotta help him up the stairs.”

“Someone’s gotta help him out of bed.”

You tilt your head. “You joke, but honestly, have you ever seen a hockey player wake up in the morning? It’s like watching an old dog stretch. Takes him, like, five whole minutes to fully stand up straight.”

He’s full-on wheezing now. “Please.”

You hold up a hand. “Swear to God. You know that snap, crackle, pop sound Rice Krispies make?”

He nods, barely holding it together.

“That’s Sidney every morning.”

That’s it. He loses it completely, practically doubled over laughing. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he gasps.

“Anyway, now that we’ve established that I’m a grown-ass man, wanna guess what I’m studying?”

You tap a finger against your chin, pretending to consider. “Hmm. Something in hospitality? Customer service? You seem way too unbothered for someone who has to deal with drunk rich people all night.”

“Business,” he says, then makes a face. “I know. Riveting.”

You shrug. “Hey, business is important. You could be running this whole venue one day.”

“Yeah, or scamming people on Wall Street.”

“Oh, so that’s the real plan.”

He taps his nose knowingly. “Gotta make that coat check money stretch.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t know, seems like a good ideas. You would get to people-watch, make fun of drunk wedding guests, witness some truly awful flirting…”

“Break up couples fucking in the coat closet,” he adds.

You grin. “Right, that too, you already have the experience.”

“It’s alright,” he admits.

You hum in acknowledgment.

“But I actually wanna do something cool with it, I swear.”

“Uh-huh.” You tilt your head. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “I wanna open my own bar. Something, like, good, though. Classy. Not just some sticky-floored shithole that only serves cheap beer and watered-down whiskey.”

You lift a brow. “So, you wanna open a fancy bar.”

He grins. “Yeah, but cool fancy. Not asshole fancy.”

You smirk. “Big dreams.”

He nods. “Huge.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Well, at least you’d be making an honest living. Can’t say the same for me, apparently.”

He winces. “Yeah, hey at least you’re escorting Sidney Crosby to weddings. Could be worse. Like some old scrub no one remembers.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Ha, ha.”

He smirks. “I mean, those people back there seemed pretty convinced.”

“Yeah, well, they can choke,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

He laughs. “Fair.”

You sigh dramatically. “If only I weren’t so well-behaved.”

He smirks. “If only you weren’t Sidney Crosby’s well-behaved girlfriend. Unlike some people at this wedding.”

You let out a sharp laugh, covering your mouth. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?” He grins, unbothered. “That’s what they think, right? You know, sell your body for some cash.”

You laugh.

He gestures at you. “See? This is a real conversation. None of that fake, rich-people bullshit in there.”

You exhale, nodding. “Yeah. It’s… nice.”

And it is. Really nice. It’s the most you’ve talked all night without feeling like you’re walking some social tightrope. No polite smiles, no fake laughs, no backhanded compliments. Just talking.

You’re just about to say something when Your phone buzzes on the bench beside you. You don’t rush to grab it, already having a pretty good guess at who it is.

Sid: You ready to head out?

You purse your lips, debating. Are you ready? Maybe. Do you care?

You: Up to you.

The typing bubble pops up almost immediately.

Sid: Where are you?

You glance up at the coat check counter, at your new best friend of the evening—who’s leaning against the back wall, scrolling idly on his phone.

You: Bathroom.

Technically, not a lie. Just… a creative interpretation of events.

Sid: Meet me at the coat desk?

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Oh, you mean the place I’ve been sitting for the past 45 minutes? What a coincidence.

Instead, you just type out a simple:

You: Sure.

“Ah,” he says knowingly. “Your date finally remembered you exist.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Yep. Miracles do happen.”

He holds a hand to his chest. “Wow. I’m so happy for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Ha, ha.” You glance around the empty hall before sighing. “Hate to cut the night short, but, y’know… duty calls.”

He nods solemnly. “Understandable. You’ll be missed.”

You smirk. “Hey, maybe one day I’ll get married here.” You gesture around dramatically. “And I’ll be sure to bring you back as my coat guy, since you’re doing such a stellar job at keeping away the drunks.”

He grins. “I’d be honored.”

You shake your head, glancing at your phone.

And then you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Because of course, Sidney saying meet me at the coat desk actually means I will take my sweet-ass time getting there.

You lean against the counter, resisting the urge to check your phone again.

Another twenty minutes pass. Then ten more.

“You sure he’s coming?” Coat Guy teases.

You shoot him a look. “Shut up.”

“I mean, I could totally give you a ride home—”

You smirk. “Do you even have a car?”

“…I could get us an Uber.”

You let out a laugh tilting your head toward him. “You know, for someone who was in a rush to leave, he’s sure taking his time.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well, he is old. Maybe he forgot where the coat desk is.”

“Fuck, you’re right. Should I go look for him? Maybe he got lost.”

“Probably wandering the halls like a confused grandpa.”

“Poor guy.”

“I know. Should I page him? ‘Sidney Crosby, please report to the coat check. Your much younger date is waiting for you.’”

You laugh. “God, please do.”

As if on cue, Sid finally rounds the corner, looking not the least bit rushed. He’s still got that stupid effortlessly charming thing going on, tie slightly loosened, jacket draped over his arm. He spots you immediately, his expression softening just a fraction.

“There you are.”

“Here I am,” you say dryly, standing up straighter.

Sid eyes you for a beat, like he can’t tell if you’re actually annoyed or just messing with him. You don’t exactly help him out, keeping your face as neutral as possible.

He turns his attention to the coat guy, nodding in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He gives him a knowing smirk but doesn’t say anything else.

Sid doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does but just doesn’t care. Either way, he turns back to you. “Got everything?”

You lift your clutch slightly. “Mhm.”

Sid nods, then slides his jacket back on, rolling his shoulders as he adjusts it. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah,” you say, not bothering to hide your exasperation.

Sid places a warm hand on your lower back, guiding you toward the exit. As you pass the desk, you shoot him a wink. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“I’ll try,” he says, grinning. “No promises, though.”

Sid glances between the two of you but doesn’t say anything. Just tightens his hand slightly against your back as he leads you out.

And just like that, you’re finally leaving.

Hours too late, but hey. Who’s counting?

Sid’s hand stays on your lower back as he leads you to the car. The night air is cool, but not unpleasant, and the walk is quiet. You don’t really reach for him. Don’t hold his arm or lace your fingers through his. You just hold onto your clutch, letting the silence settle between you. Sid doesn’t push it, just keeps his hand steady as he guides you toward the car.

The parking lot is mostly empty now, save for a few stragglers lingering near their cars, caught up in post-wedding conversations. Sid unlocks the car with a click of the key fob, and you both slide in without a word. The door shuts with a solid thunk.

Once inside, the radio hums softly in the background—some classic rock station Sid always defaults to. You don’t reach to change it this time. You just pull out your phone, scrolling for a moment before you open a text thread with a friend and start typing something, not thinking too hard about it.

You: If you ever get invited to a wedding full of ex-hockey players, politely decline.

Sid glances over at you before shifting the car into reverse, backing out of the spot. The drive starts off the same way the walk did—quiet. Not necessarily tense, just…muted. It’s been a long night, after all.

A couple of minutes in, Sid finally breaks the silence. “How was your night?”

You don’t look up from your phone. “Great.”

He waits a beat, like he’s expecting more. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, eyes still on your screen. “Food was a little dry, but no complaints.”

Sid hums. “Okay.”

The car falls back into silence, save for the steady sound of the tires against the pavement and the occasional change in song on the radio. You keep texting, your thumbs moving idly over the screen.

After a while, Sid speaks again. “Did you get to talk to anyone?”

You let out a short breath—almost a laugh. “Sort of.”

Sid glances at you briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “What does that mean?”

You set your phone down in your lap, finally looking over at him. “I mean, the three women who did talk to me were very funny.”

Sid frowns slightly. “Funny?”

You smile, but there’s no real warmth behind it. “Hilarious, actually.”

His fingers tighten around the wheel. “Okay…”

That’s the end of that conversation. Another stretch of silence. The wedding venue fades into the distance behind you, the city lights coming into view ahead.

A few more minutes pass before you shift slightly in your seat, looking out the window. “Hey, can you just take me home?”

Sid glances at you again, brows furrowing. “I thought we agreed you’d just come back to my place.”

You nod. “Yeah, we did. I just…kinda want to go home now.”

Sid’s grip on the wheel tightens just a fraction. “Why?”

You shrug. “I just want to sleep in my own bed.”

Sid exhales through his nose. “You like my bed.”

You nod again. “I do.”

“But you don’t want to sleep in it tonight?”

“Not really.”

Sid doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps driving, his expression unreadable. He’s confused, you can tell. The change of plans is throwing him off.

You pick at the hem of your dress. “It’s fine,” you say lightly. “We can just go back to your place and I’ll call an Uber to take me home.”

Sid lets out a small, humorless laugh. “I can take you home. It’s not a big deal.”

You look over at him. “Great.”

But it doesn’t feel great. It feels weird. Off.

Sid’s jaw flexes slightly as he makes a turn, the city lights casting shadows over his face. “Did something happen?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Sid doesn’t look convinced. “Then why are you acting weird?”

“I’m not acting weird.”

“You are acting weird.”

You sigh, leaning your head back against the seat. “I’m just tired, Sid. It’s been a long night.”

Sid exhales sharply. “Yeah, no shit.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, clearly confused. The tension in the car thickens, stretching between you like a tightrope. The night has been long—too long—and the last thing you want is to get into it with him right now.

But Sid doesn’t just let things go.

A few minutes pass before he speaks again, his voice edged with frustration. “You’re gonna tell me what’s wrong, or are we just gonna sit here pretending everything’s fine?”

Your fingers curl around the hem of your dress. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Sid lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

You glance over at him, irritation creeping into your voice. “What do you want me to say, Sidney?”

“How about the truth?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ.”

Sid shakes his head too, gripping the wheel tighter. “You were fine earlier. And now, all of a sudden, you wanna go home, and I have no fucking clue why.”

“Maybe I just want to sleep in my own bed for once.”

“That’s bullshit,” he mutters.

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, voice tense. “You stay at my place all the time. You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

“Well, maybe tonight I do.”

Sid glances at you, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “So what happened?”

You look straight ahead, jaw tight.

Sid’s fingers tap against the wheel. “Jesus,” he mutters. “If you don’t wanna be here, just fucking say it.”

Your stomach twists. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it feels like.”

You inhale slowly through your nose, trying to keep your temper in check. You’re both tired. You’re both irritated. And this is getting nowhere.

Finally, you exhale. “Just take me home, Sid.”

He presses his lips together, nods once, and changes lanes. The rest of the drive is silent, thick with unspoken words and unasked questions pressing in from all sides as Sid pulls up to your apartment building. The soft hum of the engine is the only sound between you. The streetlights cast a dull glow through the windshield, illuminating the set of his jaw, the furrow of his brows, and the way his fingers tap once against the steering wheel before stilling completely.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, pausing briefly before grabbing your purse from the floorboard. "Thanks for a great night," you say, voice light, almost distant.

Sid doesn't answer right away, just stares ahead at the dashboard, his lips pressing into a thin line.

You're already reaching for the door handle when he finally mutters, "Yeah."

You hesitate, gripping the strap of your purse a little tighter. But you don't look at him. You can't. Not when you’re already hanging by a thread.

So you just slip out of the car, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

No I love you.

No goodnight kiss.

Nothing.

Sid stays parked, his headlights illuminating the pavement in front of your building. You know he’s waiting. He always waits. Won’t leave until he sees the light in your apartment turn on. A silent reassurance that you made it inside safely.

You fish your keys out of your purse and make your way up the short set of stairs to your building entrance, the lump in your throat growing tighter with every step.

This is the right call.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You unlock the door, step inside, and flick on the hallway light. A soft glow spills out onto the pavement outside.

You don’t have to turn around to know Sid is still there. Still watching.

You stand there for a second, fingers curling around the doorknob, waiting—listening.

Any second now, you’ll hear his car pull out of his usual parking spot.

Any second now.

But the street outside stays quiet.

Your chest tightens.

You could turn around. Walk back down the steps. Open the car door and say, Hey, sorry for being weird tonight, I just—

Just what?

You should’ve just talked it out with him. Should’ve let him in instead of shutting down. He deserves more than this. So, why do you feel like he did something wrong tonight?

You squeeze your eyes shut.

No.

You made your choice.

Maybe—maybe in some sick and twisted, selfish way, a break will be easier this way.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

Maybe if you make the distance now, if you start pulling away, it won’t hurt as much when you finally tell him what you’ve been feeling. That you’re not the one for him. That tonight made that painfully clear how you just don’t fit into his world. That you’re not the match you thought you were.

It’s not his fault. It’s just… how it is. And he deserves someone whose hand he won’t stupidly drop, whose presence he won’t carelessly dismiss.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling a slow, shaky breath. Then another.

Still, you don’t hear the car move.

Dragging in a slow breath, you step further into your apartment and close the door behind you. Your throat tightens. You press your palm flat against the door, like you can feel the weight of him still out there, just on the other side.

Even then, you don’t hear Sid drive away.

You stay exactly where you are.

Listening. Waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping he doesn’t leave just yet.

—

[goldfades]

𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒, 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐅𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 / 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈❜𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ─ SC⁸⁷

TRACK 12 ─── LOML

TTPD CELLY MASTERLIST !

౨ৎ ─ summary | caught in a cycle of love and heartbreak, you find yourself constantly returning to sidney crosby, the one person who promises everything but never follows through. as the years pass and the same promises echo between you, you’re left questioning if holding on is worth more than letting go

─ word count | 6.3k

─ warnings | ANGST ANGST ANGST, oh my god i teared up writing this (im on my period shut up). a rollercoaster of emotions, young love -> soulmate kinda vibe. on and off, just overall angsty (with no happy ending... its ttpd, what do u expect?) idk what else to add but like... if u need a good cry, read this

The night is colder than you remember, and the city lights are muted, softening the edges of every memory you have of this place. Pittsburgh’s skyline blurs through the frost on your windshield, each bright glow fading into the next as you pull into the parking lot of a bar you used to know so well. It’s different now—a new name, new sign, but the same chime of the bell when you push through the door, like a greeting from the past.

You used to come here all the time, back when the two of you were something. Not official, not permanent—never those things—but something more than a fling and less than a promise. He used to sit right there, at the corner booth, baseball cap pulled low and face half-hidden, and you’d slide in next to him like you belonged there. Because, for a while, you thought you did.

But now you stand there, scanning the faces, waiting to see if he’ll show. The text he sent still hangs heavy in your mind, words you could almost memorize by heart: Can we talk? I miss you. It’s always like this—a cycle you’ve danced for longer than you’d care to admit. He always says the right things, words that feel like they could anchor you in the storm of his life, but it’s always just a promise, never reality.

And that’s what scares you most.

Because this time, you don’t know if you’ll fall for it again.

───

It was summer, and everything was golden.

The sun filtered through the trees, casting shadows that danced along the edges of the makeshift hockey rink. You remember the smell of freshly cut grass, the distant hum of cicadas, and the way the air buzzed with a warmth that clung to your skin. You were barely a teenager, and the world felt infinite, stretched out before you like the blue sky above. It was one of those summer afternoons when the days felt endless and you thought you had all the time in the world.

The rink wasn’t anything special—just a patch of concrete nestled in the middle of the park, surrounded by chain-link fences and littered with the scuffs and scratches of a hundred other games. But for you, it was everything. Your brother had dragged you along, promising it would be “cool” and that the guys he played with wouldn’t care that you tagged along. You’d insisted on wearing his old jersey, the one that hung loose over your frame and brushed against your knees when you walked. It smelled faintly like sweat and summer afternoons, and even though it was too big, you wore it like armor.

He was already there when you arrived, leaning casually against the boards with his stick resting on his shoulder. He wore a backwards cap that made him look like an absolute douche, but you could still see the way his grin spread wide when he laughed. He was tall, at least compared to the other boys, and he had this presence about him—like he knew exactly where he belonged, and it was right there on that concrete. He radiated this easy confidence, the kind that made people naturally gravitate toward him, and you found yourself watching him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

“Hey, kid, you play?” he called out as your brother introduced you to the group. His voice was light, teasing, but there was something in it that made you straighten your shoulders, determined to prove you weren’t just some tag-along.

You lifted your chin, clutching your stick a little tighter. “Yeah, I do.”

A laugh rippled through the group, and he tilted his head, an eyebrow raised in a way that seemed to dare you. “Alright, show me.”

You skated out onto the concrete, feeling the rough texture beneath your sneakers, the familiar push and glide that came as natural as breathing. You could feel the eyes on you, the judgment, the expectation that you’d stumble or falter.

But you didn’t.

You skated like you always did—like you had something to prove, even when no one was watching. You could feel the summer breeze tugging at your hair, could hear the sounds of sticks clashing, wheels spinning, and the distant shouts of kids playing in the park. The world faded into a blur of movement and sound, and for a moment, it was just you and the puck, gliding across the concrete.

When you stopped, stick planted firmly, the puck resting right where you aimed, you turned to face him. His grin had shifted into something softer, something that looked like approval. He nodded, a small movement that somehow felt like a victory, like you’d passed some unspoken test.

“You’re pretty good,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m Sidney.”

You told him your name, trying to play it cool, but there was something about the way he looked at you, something that made your heart beat a little faster. You brushed it off—he was just another kid, another boy who thought he ruled the rink. But when he passed you the puck during the game, when he skated close enough that you could hear his breath, quick and heavy, you felt something shift, like the start of a story you hadn’t planned on telling.

The hours blurred together, the sun sinking lower as the sky melted into hues of orange and pink. You played until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from smiling. He was quick, his movements sharp and precise, but he had this way of gliding past the others like he was weightless, like he’d been born on skates. And every time he sent the puck your way, you felt that rush again, that thrill of being seen, of being chosen.

At one point, when you stopped to catch your breath, he skated up beside you, close enough that you could see the way the sunlight caught in his eyes. “You should come out more often,” he said, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “We could use someone like you.”

You shrugged, pretending like you hadn’t already made up your mind. “Maybe.”

But deep down, you knew you’d come back.

And when he grinned, that slow, easy grin that made you feel like you were sharing a secret, you realized that maybe this was the start of something. Something that felt like endless summer days and the thrill of chasing after something just out of reach.

He was only a boy then, and you were only a girl with skates too big for your feet and dreams too big for your chest. But that was the thing about summer—everything felt possible. And standing there, the light catching in his hair and the warmth of his presence radiating like a sunbeam, you felt like you’d met someone who could make it all come true.

The years rolled on like they always do, slow and steady until you looked back and realized how quickly time had slipped by. What started as childhood games on concrete rinks and sticky summer nights turned into something deeper, something that felt like it could last forever.

When you were sixteen, things shifted. You’d always been friends, maybe even best friends. By then, he was already “Sid the Kid,” the local legend whose name was whispered with reverence around the rinks. But to you, he was just Sidney—the same boy who laughed with you when you scored, who always had an extra stick in his bag just in case, who stayed up late with you, lying on the cool grass, tracing constellations with his finger.

Somewhere between the late-night talks and the secret smiles, friendship turned into something more. It wasn’t a single moment; it was a thousand little ones, each building on the next until you both looked up and realized you weren’t just kids playing pretend anymore.

The first time he kissed you, it was right before his first big tournament. You’d been nervous for him, more nervous than he seemed to be. You’d walked down to the empty rink at dusk, the air cool and the sky the color of fading ink. You remember how his hand felt, warm and solid as it slipped into yours, and how he turned to you, eyes bright with something you hadn’t seen before. The kiss was tentative, like he was testing the waters, but it felt like fireworks, a spark in the night that you carried with you long after you pulled away.

From then on, you were something more—together but not quite official. You tried not to think about it too much, content with what you had. You showed up at every game, standing in the crowd with his number on your back, feeling that thrill when he’d glance your way. You’d spend the evenings together, sometimes in the rink, sometimes out by the water, stealing moments in between practices and tournaments. For a while, it was perfect.

Then, life happened.

He got drafted, and everything changed. He moved to Pittsburgh, and suddenly the boy who was always around, who could text or call at any hour, was miles away, caught up in a whirlwind of cameras, contracts, and the pressures of professional hockey. You were still in high school then, watching him from afar, cheering him on from a distance. You told yourself it was fine, that the distance didn’t matter, and that you were both still too young to worry about anything more than the present.

But even then, you could feel the space between you growing.

In his rookie year, you made the decision to move to Pittsburgh. You’d gotten into a college nearby, and when you called to tell him, he was ecstatic. You’d never forget the way his voice sounded on the phone—relieved, almost. Like he’d been waiting for you, hoping you’d make the leap. And so you did. You left your friends, your family, everything familiar to be closer to him. It felt like a grand, romantic gesture—the kind you saw in movies. But in the back of your mind, you knew it was more than that.

The first year was a whirlwind. You were in the stands for his games, holding your breath every time he took a shot, cheering louder than anyone when he scored. Off the ice, it felt like the two of you were creating a life together, slowly but surely. You moved in together, and even though his schedule was insane—practices, games, interviews—there were still those quiet moments.

Mornings when you’d wake up to him already gone, but with a note on the counter that read, I’ll be back soon. Evenings when he’d come home exhausted but would pull you into his arms like nothing else in the world mattered. It was enough, more than enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Somewhere along the way, the cracks started to show. At first, it was small things—missed dinners, texts that went unanswered because he was “caught up in meetings.” Then, the fights started. You’d ask him about the future—where were you going, what were you to each other? He’d dodge the questions, promising you that things would be easier once the season was over, once the next championship was done, once his contract was sorted out.

You tried to believe him, tried to convince yourself that you were both still young, that you had time. But every time you saw him, it felt like you were grasping at something that was always just slipping out of reach.

The first breakup came after his rookie season. You’d been together for two years, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you, the uncertainty, the feeling that maybe you’d given up too much, too soon. You remember standing in the doorway, watching him lace up his skates, and asking, for the first time, why you weren’t moving forward. He looked at you, eyes soft but distant, and said he didn’t know. That maybe things were moving too fast. You didn’t yell, didn’t cry. You just nodded, kissed him one last time, and left.

It was the first time you thought that maybe he wasn’t ready to be with you the way you needed him to be. But it wasn’t the last.

Over the next few years, it was the same dance—back and forth, the two of you pulled together by some invisible force that neither of you could name, only to be pushed apart by the same old arguments, the same doubts.

Each time you broke up, it felt like the end.

You’d tell yourself that this time, it was really over. You’d pack your things, move out, and try to rebuild your life. But then, he’d call. Sometimes it was months later, sometimes just weeks, but it was always the same: I miss you. I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready then, but I am now.

And every time, you believed him.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like you were the only person who really knew him, who understood the weight he carried every time he stepped onto the ice. Or maybe it was the promises he’d make when he held you close, whispering that one day he’d put a ring on your finger, that one day you’d have a family together. You told yourself that this time would be different, that you could trust him, that he was finally ready.

But each time, it ended the same way. The season would start, and he’d get caught up again—first in the games, then in the championships, then in the next contract. And you’d find yourself alone, the same questions building up, the same empty promises echoing in your head.

It went on like that for years. You tried dating other people, tried moving on, but it was always temporary. No one else felt like home the way he did, and you hated yourself for it. You’d built your life around someone who couldn’t give you the future he kept promising, and the worst part was, you kept going back.

You remember the last time you walked away. It was after another fight, the same one you’d had a dozen times before. You’d asked him about the future, and he’d given you that same look, the one that told you he was already pulling away. But this time, when he said, I just need time, you didn’t have the strength to believe him. You nodded, the lump in your throat too tight to speak, and left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

And now, you find yourself back where it all started, years later, wondering if he’s changed. If this time, when he said I miss you, it really meant something. But deep down, you already know the answer.

It’s the same as it’s always been.

───

You scan the room, your heart pounding, eyes darting from one face to another, hoping—no, dreading—that you’ll see him. Part of you wants to run, to turn around and pretend you never agreed to meet him. But the other part, the part that still holds on to the memories of you and him when things were easy, when love was simple and uncomplicated, keeps your feet rooted to the floor.

He’s always late, and you’ve learned to hate it. It’s not just a bad habit—it’s a symbol of everything between you two, a reminder that he always has something, or someone, else pulling him in another direction. Every time he tells you he’ll be there, every time you stand waiting, it’s like a countdown until he lets you down again.

You glance down at your phone, the screen lighting up with the time: fifteen minutes past when he said he’d be here. You think about leaving, about saving yourself the heartache. You’ve done this dance so many times before. You know the steps, know the way it’ll play out if you wait long enough. He’ll walk in, breathless and apologetic, and those eyes—God, those eyes—will soften when they find yours. He’ll look at you like you’re the only thing that’s kept him steady in a world that’s always moving too fast.

And you’ll feel your resolve slip, just like it always does.

Your hand tightens around the phone, knuckles turning white as you try to steel yourself against the pull of old memories. You think back to the last time you saw him, to the way he looked at you when you said enough. It had been one of those fights, the ones that started small—something about how he missed dinner again, or how you were the only one trying—and escalated into everything you’d ever bottled up. You told him you were tired of waiting, tired of hearing him say he was ready when all he ever did was prove otherwise.

He’d stood there, silent, watching you with that look—the one that said he was sorry but not enough to change. And you left, thinking that maybe this time, you’d finally meant it. That you could walk away and not look back.

But now, here you are, back in the same place, waiting.

A familiar ache spreads through your chest as the seconds tick by, every moment without him another chance for doubt to creep in. You don’t want to be here, don’t want to be the person who keeps holding out hope when all it ever does is hurt. But despite everything, you can’t help the part of you that still believes. The part that whispers this time could be different, even when you know it won’t be.

Just when you’ve almost convinced yourself to leave, the door swings open. Your breath catches as you spot him, shoulders hunched slightly like he’s unsure of how to approach. He looks older, wearier than you remember, but it’s him. The moment his eyes lock with yours, you feel it—the same rush, the same pull that’s always been there, drawing you back in.

He smiles, that small, tentative smile that used to melt your defenses. It’s like he knows exactly how to walk that line between sincerity and charm, and you hate how well it works. You fight the urge to return it, to let that familiar warmth bloom in your chest, and instead, you keep your expression neutral.

He crosses the room with that unhurried stride, his gaze never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he stops, just a foot away, close enough that you can smell the faint hint of his cologne—a scent you’d once known better than your own. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, like he’s memorizing the way you look right now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful, like he’s testing the waters.

“Hey.” Your response is cool, guarded. You’re not going to make this easy for him, not this time.

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck—a habit you know means he’s nervous. “I’m sorry I’m late. Got caught up—”

You cut him off, tired of the same excuses. “It’s always something with you, Sid.”

He flinches, and you almost feel guilty. Almost. But then you remember all the times you waited, all the empty promises, and you stand your ground.

“I know,” he says softly. “You’re right.”

The words hang between you, heavy with everything that’s come before. It’s different this time. Usually, he jumps right into the apologies, into telling you how much he missed you, how he’s ready now, how he’s changed. But tonight, he just stands there, the look on his face a mixture of regret and something else you can’t quite read.

And maybe that’s the problem. You’ve never been able to fully read him. You’ve spent years trying, and every time you think you’ve figured him out, he slips away. You wonder if he knows how much it hurts—wonder if he even cares.

“So, what is it this time?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest, your eyes searching his for any sign of what he’s thinking. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He exhales, a slow, deep breath that seems to carry the weight of everything you’ve been through together. “I just—” he starts, then stops, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I miss you.”

You shake your head, the familiar ache settling into your bones. “You always miss me when I’m gone.”

His gaze snaps back to yours, and for a moment, you see something raw in his eyes—something real. “No, I mean it. I’m tired of pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. I’m tired of losing you.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But the words feel like echoes of promises he’s made a hundred times before. And the part of you that’s always been waiting, hoping, feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

“Prove it,” you say, your voice steady even though your heart is racing. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Sid. I can’t keep falling for the same lines.”

He takes a step closer, and for a moment, you feel the pull again—the magnetic force that’s always drawn you back to him, no matter how many times you’ve tried to walk away. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words, and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

But as he reaches for your hand, you can’t help but brace yourself for the familiar sting of disappointment. Because no matter what he says, you know how this story ends.

He glanced down, looking down at the promise ring on your finger. Your ring finger. The same ring he'd given you many years ago, before he left for Pittsburgh. He told you it was just the beginning, a placeholder for something bigger. Something that, back then, felt like a certainty. You remember the way he slipped it on your finger, his hands steady and sure. His eyes shone with the same excitement you felt—like the future was a road you were both eager to walk down together.

“I’ll get you the real thing one day,” he’d promised, his voice brimming with that youthful conviction. “Just wait for me.”

And you did. For years, you wore that ring like a badge of honor, a symbol of everything you believed you were building together. When he left for Pittsburgh, you told yourself it was only temporary. Distance was just another hurdle, and the two of you had overcome so many already. You visited him during breaks, and every time he came home, it felt like picking up right where you left off. You thought nothing could break that bond.

Now, standing in front of him, you can see it in his eyes—that same look he’s always given you when he knows he’s let you down. But there’s a hesitation there, too, a weight he’s carrying that wasn’t there before. You wonder if he’s finally seeing it the way you do—if he’s finally realizing that words and promises are never enough.

He reaches for your hand, his thumb grazing the cool, faded metal of the ring. “I know I’ve said it before, but I—”

You pull your hand back, your chest tightening with all the years of waiting, all the times you’ve heard those same words and let yourself believe them. “Don’t. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

His jaw tenses, and he looks up, his eyes searching yours. “I do mean it,” he says, but there’s a hint of desperation in his voice now. “I know I haven’t been fair to you. I know I’ve asked too much.”

You shake your head, the anger and sadness mixing together until they’re almost indistinguishable. “No, Sidney, you’ve taken too much. You’ve taken years of my life—years I can’t get back.”

He winces, and you can see the hurt flash across his face, but you don’t pull back. You can’t. “I’ve given up everything for you—my job, my plans, my own life—because I believed in this. I believed in us. But every time, you leave. Every time, you break your promise.”

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can speak. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep living my life waiting for a future that’s never going to come.”

There’s a moment of silence between you, and you can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words—words that you know won’t change anything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it feels like the final nail in the coffin. “I know I don’t deserve you. But I’m here now, and I want to make it right.”

You look down at the ring, that small circle of metal that once meant everything to you. It feels heavy now, like a weight dragging you down, a reminder of all the time you’ve spent waiting for something that never happened.

“I can’t wait forever,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need more than just words, Sid.”

For a moment, it looks like he might finally say something real, something that could change everything. But instead, he just stands there, silent, and you feel your heart break a little more. Because you know, deep down, that he doesn’t have an answer. He never has.

“You still wear it,” he spoke slowly, glancing down at the ring. “Doesn't that mean something? Anything? That maybe, maybe we should give this another try?”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his words settle around you like a storm cloud. It’s so typical of him, to latch onto the smallest signs, to twist reality just enough to make it feel like there’s hope. It’s the same hope that’s kept you coming back time and time again, like a moth drawn to the flicker of a flame.

But this time, that flame feels like it’s burning out.

“Sidney, I never stopped loving you,” you admit, and it’s the raw truth, the kind you’ve tried to keep buried for so long. “But love isn’t the problem. It’s everything else. It’s you telling me we have a future and then disappearing when it matters. It’s you making promises you can’t keep.”

He reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, holding on like he’s afraid you’ll slip away for good. “I’m different now. I’m ready. I know I said that before, but this time—”

“No,” you interrupt, pulling your arm back, the frustration building in your chest. “You’ve said that every time. You tell me you’re ready, that things will be different, and I believe you because I want to believe you. But then the same thing happens—you get busy, the season gets hard, and suddenly I’m on the sidelines again, waiting for you to make time for me.”

His shoulders slump, and he looks down, like he can’t face the truth of his own words. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know I’ve messed up. But I swear, this time—”

“Sid, listen to yourself.” You cross your arms, trying to steady the tremor in your voice. “This time, next time—there’s always a next time. But it’s just a cycle. It always has been. And I don’t know if I can keep believing that things will change when they never do.”

His eyes lock onto yours, and there’s a flash of something you haven’t seen before—fear, maybe, or the realization that you’re slipping away. “But I don’t want to lose you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I can’t lose you.”

For a second, your resolve wavers. You see the boy you fell in love with, the one who used to hold your hand in the stands and tell you he couldn’t imagine his life without you. But the boy grew up, and his dreams took him places you were never a part of, no matter how hard you tried to be.

“You already have, Sid,” you whisper, feeling the ache spread through your chest. “You lost me a long time ago when you chose everything else over us. And I don’t think you even realize it.”

He steps closer, his hand hovering near your face like he’s afraid to touch you, like you’re something fragile that might break. “I’m trying, okay? I’m here now. I’m trying to make it right.”

You close your eyes, fighting the tears threatening to fall. “You always say that. But it’s not about showing up when it’s convenient for you. It’s about showing up when it’s hard, when things aren’t perfect, and proving that I’m more than just an option.”

When you open your eyes, you see the pain on his face, and it almost makes you want to take it all back, to say that you’ll try again, that you’ll believe him just one more time.

But you can’t. Not anymore.

“Tell me what to do,” he pleads, desperation clear in every word. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

But that’s just it. It’s not something you can tell him. It’s something he has to want, something he has to choose—without you holding his hand through it, without you putting your life on pause, waiting for him to catch up.

“I can’t tell you how to love me, Sid,” you say, and it feels like the hardest thing you’ve ever done. “You either do, or you don’t. But I can’t be the one always holding this together. It has to be both of us, or it’s nothing.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but then he hesitates, and in that silence, you feel everything shift. It’s as if the reality of the situation is finally sinking in for both of you.

“Maybe…” you start, your voice cracking, “maybe this was always going to be the end.”

His face pales, and you see the fear flash through his eyes, but you hold firm. “I can’t keep living in the past, hoping you’ll change. I need more than just words, and if you can’t give me that, then…” You take a deep breath, the weight of the years falling away with each word. “Then maybe we need to let go.”

Sidney’s lips part as if to protest, but then he stops. His hand falls away from yours, and the emptiness between you feels colder than the Pittsburgh winters.

You let out a bitter chuckle as the tears begin to fall. “We could've had a good life together, Sid. Everything you could've wanted. Kids, a nice house and some... some cute dogs,”

It seemed silly to say, but it was the truth. You swallowed as you looked, trying to stifle your incoming sobs. “And it would’ve been ours. Not just mine, or yours—ours.”

The words are raw, cutting through the stillness between you. You can feel the sobs building in your chest, threatening to spill out, but you hold them back, just for a moment longer. “But you never wanted that. Not really. Not enough to make it real.”

Sidney’s face crumples, and he looks like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. “You always talk about wanting it all—wanting me, wanting the life we could have had, but then you pull away the second it gets too real. And I’m tired, Sid. I’m so damn tired of giving everything to someone who can’t meet me halfway.”

He shifts, taking a hesitant step forward, like he’s testing the waters, his eyes pleading. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want it,” he says, voice rough and cracking. “I just—” He rubs a hand over his face, frustration evident. “I didn’t know how to balance it all. I thought I’d have more time, that we’d figure it out eventually.”

“Eventually?” you repeat, the bitterness seeping through. “Sid, we’ve been at this for years. Years of back and forth, of me waiting for you to choose me. To really choose me. And every time, it’s the same story. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that things will be different.”

He stands there, shoulders hunched, and you can see the struggle in his eyes. It’s the same look he’s given you countless times before, like he wants so badly to fix things but doesn’t know where to start. It makes your heart ache because you know, deep down, he’s not a bad person. He’s just… lost.

And maybe, you realize, he always will be.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I just—every time I tried to make things work, it felt like something else came up, and I kept thinking if I waited just a little longer—”

“Then everything would magically fall into place?” you cut in, shaking your head. “Life doesn’t work that way, Sid. Love doesn’t work that way. You can’t keep putting off what you want, what you need, and expect everything to turn out okay in the end.”

He takes another step forward, reaching out like he’s about to pull you in, but you take a step back, needing the distance. “I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you say, the tears finally streaming down your cheeks. “I just needed you to try. To show up. To prove that I was worth fighting for. But it feels like every time I turn around, you’re already halfway out the door.”

His expression falters, and you know he wants to argue, to tell you that it’s different this time, that he’s ready now. But you’ve heard it all before, and the words have lost their meaning.

“I wanted the house,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I wanted the dogs, the kids, all of it. I wanted us, Sidney. And I believed we could have it. But you kept pushing it off, and now… I don’t know if I can keep waiting for something that might never come.”

He reaches out again, and this time, you let him. His hand closes around yours, and it feels both familiar and foreign—like holding on to a memory that’s slipping through your fingers.

“I love you,” he says, and there’s a desperation in his voice that makes your heart clench. “I’ve always loved you.”

You give him a sad smile, knowing that, despite everything, that much is true. “I know,” you say, squeezing his hand one last time before pulling away. “But sometimes, love isn’t enough.”

And as you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the cold, you hope—maybe for the first time—that you’ll be strong enough to let go. Because you know if you don’t, this cycle will only repeat itself. And you can’t keep breaking your own heart for someone who won’t give you the life you’ve always wanted.

That night, you dreamed of the house. The kids, and the dogs and of him. You'd wake up, it would feel like how it did the day you met—warm and safe, like everything in the world had finally fallen into place.

The sun would stream through the windows of that little house you imagined, its golden light wrapping you in the kind of warmth you’d always craved. You’d roll over, and there he’d be, his arm draped lazily over your waist, his eyes still heavy with sleep but soft, so soft, like he was seeing the whole world in you.

The kids would run down the hall, their laughter echoing, filling the space between your shared breaths. You’d rise together, slowly, and there would be no rush, no impending flight or long distance to worry about. Just you, him, and that perfect slowness of a morning spent together. The dogs would bound into the room, tails wagging, and the day would unfold in simple, perfect moments—breakfast at the table, messy hair and pajamas, the feeling of his hand on yours as he refilled your coffee cup.

It would feel right.

And in that dream, it would all make sense—why you’d waited so long, why you’d kept coming back, even when you knew better. Because in that world, in that life, you had everything you’d ever wanted. It was real, and it was whole, and there were no questions, no doubts, no space for the silence that always lingered between you in reality.

But then, you’d wake up.

You’d open your eyes to the quiet, dark room, the emptiness of your side of the bed. There’d be no warm sunlight, no laughter echoing through the halls, no weight of his arm pulling you close. Just the cold, still air of your apartment, the hum of the city outside, and the realization that it was all just a dream—a dream you’d had a thousand times before, and one you knew you’d have again.

And as you lay there, staring up at the ceiling, you’d feel that ache settle in your chest. The one that reminded you that no matter how real it felt, it was only ever going to be a figment of your imagination. Because the truth was, you had to wake up alone.

In that moment, you’d wonder if he ever dreamed of it too—if he ever pictured that life, those mornings, the way you did. If he ever saw a future where he stayed, where he chose you and didn’t let go. But you knew that even if he did, it wasn’t enough. Because while you were left clinging to dreams, he was off living a life that didn’t have room for you in it.

You’d curl back into the blankets, pulling them tight around you, pretending for just one more moment that the warmth was him. That maybe, one day, you’d wake up to the life you’d always imagined, and it wouldn’t slip away like morning mist.

But until then, all you had were the dreams and the memories of a love that almost was—almost, but never quite enough.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[hockeygirl101]

Everyone’s always asking me who my favourite player is. It will always be Sidney Crosby, like are you joking??? No matter how old he gets I will love him with all my heart. Yes! He’s an old man. Yes! He is inappropriately hot.

No one will ever in my heart, beat Sis the kid. Ever, not even the Hughes brother…

[swissboyhisch]

Hockey Girlies Unite!

With the start of Hockey season starting soon, our discord is buzzing with activity. There is 50+ members and we'd love some more!

Link: https://discord.gg/24ZswxKuF9

If you enjoy hockey, writing and reading, you'd love our team. Games, trades and players all discussed. Anything and everything hockey and more. Even if you're new to the sport and want to learn more.

Some upcoming events in the discord: Start of Season Game Watch Party Halloween Movie Night Quiz Night

Writing is something we also are passionate about. If you need inspo, editing help or just want to chat ideas, this is a great space for it. Need fic recs? I'm sure someone will give you many!

Whilst Hockey is the main topic we all love, we also discuss things like F1, books, Disney, travel and gaming.

If you have any questions or the link doesn't work, feel free to message myself or @mp0625 :)

[behoright]

blog updates + masterlist

ㅤᘒ ⋆ ࣪. 삶 ⋆ 🦷ㅤᘒ ⋆ ࣪. 삶 ⋆ 🦷ㅤᘒ ⋆ ࣪. 삶 ⋆ 🦷ㅤᘒ ⋆ ࣪. 삶 ⋆ 🦷

masterlist -> under maintenance!!

᭥ ᭄ °. ★ +

upcoming fics loading….

inbox is open (if ur nice)! preferred asks are fic requests of lesser known players! share ur mans w me!

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[cyarskj52]

he’s such a dweeb! “we’re just going to do some shots of you looking cool. looking tough.” “you know what i don’t even know if i want to see it now.”